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O koryšľavej makulici

My dad was no ordinary dad. Every time when I was in a summer camp or on a school trip or otherwise removed from home, he would therefore write no ordinary letters. Instead, they were crossword puzzles, code language, letters written in a mirror font backwards (one had to read them in a mirror), letters that had to be assembled among a few people, etc. For birthdays and Christmas I got no ordinary gifts. It was always something challenging and funny. Something that required effort on our part. Today, I found a fairy tale we got for Christmas in 1982 or so. O koryšľavej makulici. It consists nearly entirely of made up words, yet the events and the fate of the poor makulica are perfectly clear (well, to a Slovak speaker). I remember shedding crocodile tears over her sorry end not even knowing what a makulica could be or look like. Here it is, recorded for posteriority.

O koryšľavej makulici.

Keď sa zažemrali repetilky, vylochnul Karis na buzlovú rovku a opeklil makulicu. Makulica podrafla a zaračala. "Hoj, makulica, apatuj!", zarepetil Karis. Ale makulica neapatovala.

Karis podral makulici lendalky a opeklil ju šuflovými račarkami. Ej račala makulica, račala, ale apatovať ju ani neburzíklo. Buzlová rovka mirzovačne čamrala a repetilky krvíkali na čochlavom bardováne.

Opeklil Karis koryšľavú makulicu kordobánom a priblinknul jej dažirky na hufňavý rabičok. Rabičok sa rozpulavil a zabrnel. Makulica žarošňavo podchlinknula a zabačkala do ročarky. "Apatuj, koryšľavá makulica, lebo repetilky už odžemrali a holica negromlí!", repetnul Karis mošňavo a hročkal.

Ale makulica iba burzíkala, no nepatočne ani neapatnula.

Podrochnil Karis Siraka. Sirak vylochnul na buzlovú rovku a opeklil koyšľavú makulicu. Hoj, boroňavý bol Sirak, boroňavý! Peklila makulica boroňavému Sirakovi, račarky šufľali, ale makulica aj tak neapatovala. Buzlová rovka Sirakovi mirzovačne čamrala a repetilky mu krovíkali na čochľavom bardováne.

Opeklil Sirak koryšľavú makulicu kordobánom a razarne jej priblinknul ratné dažirky na hufňavý rabinčok. Morovatý rabinčok sa znovu rozpulavil a dazarne zabrnel. Makulica uť len žarošňovato podchlinknula, zabačla do ročerky a rachnula. Už ani neburzíkala, ale aj tak neapatovala.

Karis a Sirak pribornili koryšľavú makulicu meričkovým rabníkom, začorili jej harníčky lepríkovými korontíkmi. Bulíčková makulička žablovične zaračkala a odflundila bru. Chorkavý žuf a kran, medlochový zríč, abarnie kurňov: taký bol lopeň keňovej makuličky.

Karis a Sirak lochnili po buzlovej rovke, ale makulicu už nepeklili. Repetilky už nežemrali. Karis podral makulicine lendalky a opeklil sa jej šofľovými račarkami. Sirak vylochnul na Karisa a Karis zaapatoval. Zaburzíkali a obzinkli koryšľavú makulicu radačovým barzom.

No koryšľavá makulica už na to ani nečofla.

xxx

The Church of the Bad Omen

There are higher powers. Indeed there are, and they are trying their damnedest to send us signs when we are supposed to do something, and especially when we are NOT supposed to do something. Sometimes they are beating us on our dumb skulls with the signs and we tank right on ahead, dull-eyed empty-headed muttons that we are.

I was running late. As always. I was also sickly, but no matter. This stubborn goat decided to go biking and canoeing (or was it kayaking?) in Amsterdamse Bos (the "forest," though it really is a pimped park). Five minutes into my ride to the train station, my water bottle holder broke off and landed on the ground. That's a sign straight from heaven or hell, whichever has these things in their immediate jurisdiction. By the time I affixed it back onto the bicycle, and made it to the platform, it was five minutes before 1pm. My group - the Netherlands Adventurists - were meeting in five minutes at the gates of Amsterdamse Bos. I called V. to tell him not to wait, I'll be late.
The train that was supposed to bring me to Schiphol did not come. "Defect...something something ...all in Dutch of course". I should have taken my cues and head home. No. Mutton head.

I and my bike have schlepped each other along clumsily on local trains through Leiden... I never know how to fit into the train with my bike and not be in the way of others. I knocked another bike down, stabbed a lady with the brake handles, smeared bike grease all over my new pants (which had to be worn, since they were, you know. new.)
I got of at Schiphol, which is a very large airport. I felt a little silly there, pushing my bike around fashion shops and food stands. I walk outside, no idea how to get the hell out of this jungle by bike. But, amazingly (not in the Netherlands, just anywhere else), a bike path begins RIGHT at the airport. 6km to Amsterdamse Bos. I get there, try to call V., but he's not picking up. Omen upon omen. I wait. Try again, nothing. I decide to bike through the Bos a bit, it's so lovely outside, and then maybe bike all the way back to the Hague or something, we'll see. I tried V. one more time, and this time I got him. They just rented canoes (or kayaks?) and were headed out for about an hour.
Great! I'll catch up with them. I kept getting lost, since all the signs consist of at least 25 unpronouncable letters, but I found it. I had no cash. Omenomenomen. But, the lady suggested I can borrow some from my friends once I find them. Sure, the inner dimwit agreed with glee. The lady did NOT suggest that I leave my bag with her, nor did she give me a waterproof plastic bag like she apparently did to everyone else. No matter. I am a street-smart worldly traveler, surely I can navigate a silly solo canoe (or kayak?). I squeeze myself in, stuff my bag between my knees towards the nose of the canoeyak. On we go. Wee!
I paddle something fierce. I am so good at this, slicing through water like knife through buttah. Sun is glistening and jumping off the ripples in the water, so I bust out my trusty old camera and snap away. There is a big furry bird up on the tree and I try to zoom in as much as I can before it flies away. Snap....snap...and....oops! There's a tree right ahead of me. I veered too close to the bank. No matter, I am a street-smart worldly, and strong, traveler, few fierce strokes with my paddle and I'll be out on the open water again.
Another thing that the lady did not tell me is how unstable the solo canoeyak is. Two fierce strokes and I felt the center of my gravity was dangerously leaning to the right. It felt like it was all in slow motion, and suddenly the world was surprisingly wet and cold. I am frantically thrashing about with my arms, dog paddling but failing, sputtering water all about in a bit of a shock. I latch onto the canoeyak and try to turn it around and haul myself in....this is of course utterly futile.

A lovely Dutch couple pedals by on their water bicycle.
"Are you alright?" they ask.
I am utterly startled. My posessions are swimming in an area of 20 square meters, I am up to my neck in muddy cold water looking rather insane.... do I LOOK alright?!?!
"No, I am NOT alright. I think I need help," say I.
"Can you swim?" the lady part of the couple asks.
...at this point I am genuinely pissed off. YOU get into this water and look suave, you daft cow, think I.
"Yes, of course I can swim," say I.
The man part of the couple suggests I try climbing onto their bicycle and off of it into the water filled canoeyak. That is not working, since when I try to climb on, the bicycle tilts and starts to drown. He asks me to get off and suggests that I swim to the shore. They leave. They pedal off while I'm still in the middle of the bloody river thrashing about and choking on water.

Count to five, slowly. There is mud beneath. It is gross, but I stand in it. I sink into it upto my thighs. Brrrr. I drag the caneoyak to the shore, relieved to see my bag still in it. But my digital camera and my beloved Nieman Foundation sweatshirt are gone.
It's a good thing I didn't die, that would be bloody expensive! I think. I am not insured yet, or at least don't have any papers about it yet.
When on the shore, I tip the canoeyak upside down, as well as my bag. I pace back and forth, still furious at the couple. I check my digital arsenal.
"There is no response from phone," my phone says, but at least there is something on the screen. The iPod is just dead. You can see water inside.
I undress, I so don't care if the Queen herself paddles by right now. I wring out my t-shirt and pants. Sanity assembled back, I push myself into the canoe and canoe back into the water and launch successfully. I look like Hell and I smell worse.
The highligh of the trip were praises from the rental people at my calmness and level-headedness. But, what am I gonna do...we worldly street-smart travelers don't cry and stomp our foot in front of the populace.

I meet my group. All of them (Sixteen, count'em) for the first time in my life, except for V. After about an hour of perfectly ineffective attempt to dry in the sun I excuse myself and head home. Bike, train, bike.... 3 hours since the refreshing dip, I finally get into a hot shower and wash the fishes away. My bag still smells of the mud when it rains.

I really trully pledge to pay attention to bad omens and heed the advice of the higher powers, working tirelessly to guide us despite our blindness and deafness towards them.

I could have loved you like a planet

...but it really doesn't matter at all...no it really doesn't matter at all.....Life's a gas!

Well, that's Replacements, now stuck in my head semi-permanently, for good reason probably. It really does not matter at all... I could have loved Cambridge like a planet, and I did, I did. But I picked up my room and plopped it into The Hague. When I look around, it looks almost the same, the same laptop on my knees, except my musically inclined housemate whistles when walking down the stairs, producing new sounds (that jolt me out of the bed and stand at the ready to defend myself before i remember he's just whistling/humming/singing....i don't get the emo stuff, always sounds like an injured wailing banshee to me). And when I walk outside...well, I don't walk outside. I get on my bike and pedal around... And streets are streets... could be almost anywhere. Except here you have to navigate through a sea of bikers, many of them are carrying large obtrusive objects, talk on the cell phone and smoke at the same time.
And all the Europe stuff.... old buildings and cobblestones....all mostly obstacles, from a biker's perspective. For a land of bikers, there's way too many cobblestones. From The Hague all the way to Leiden. My brain is still shaking three days later.
Though I do wish to be able to walk out to my old living room, and knit while sipping an IPA and moving the TV about the room to catch a grainy episode of Seinfeld.
Here I can drink any beer and watch any of 1,000 channels on our cable TV. Where's the fun in that?

All things material, be gone!

Well, except my jewelry. I mean, it does come from all over the world... and the board I made for my earrings to hang off of. That's a piece of art, really. Gradma's head scarf is the background for it, can't leave that behind. Nor five boxes worth of books or a trillion suitcases worth of clothing, every last piece of a deep sentimental value, of course.....
This is not gonna be easy.

I'm moving to The Hague. And if I defend my bloody dissertation before I go, I'll even be excited. In the meantime, I am trying to Reduce Everything. I started a big trash bag in the middle of my room, thinking I'll just throw in it everything I don't need, mercilessly. Off it will go to the Good Will. It now sports an old bike helmet with a torn off strap and a hair dryer with a torn off switch (a pattern?). Nothing more.... Unacceptable.

Meanwhile I am trying to decide if I want a gemeuvemefeldet apartment (or whatever) or whether that might be a bad thing, trying to see through the photos of various studios and apartments online whether I'll feel at home there.

Thus the journey begins.

Oh yes. The dissertation defense first. Meh.

Oooh, found a pen that doesn't work! Off to the trash bag! There is hope.

Den Haag!!!

"It's all downhill from now..."

And I sure hope so! Shouldn't that be a good thing? All downhill from now, weeeeee!

Anyway, so many expressions have almost the opposite meaning than they logically should have.

"It's all but done".... Well, my imagination suggests that it was left alone, swept under the rug, delegated to someone else who died a sudden and gruesome death... it suggests many things except for "it's almost done".

And the good old "horrible" and "horrific" - both a bad thing.... and "terrible" and "terrific" suddenly being quite the opposite of one another. Gah! I think it's a plot against the foreigners really. Nobody likes us.

I shall not be subdued. I will follow my common sense and use the words as I deem fit. Even if people will think I went off the deep end (not sure where or why).

For all the fish in the ocean

I walk in, a little tense, and close the door. Make sure it's closed all the way. I climb up two steps and sit down.
"I'm just gonna relax," I say to myself.
But I know it's coming. Oh I know it's coming!
"Don't be silly, you know it's perfectly harmless! It's good for you, actually!"
Yes I know, but I don't really care to be all that rational right now. It's coming, it's coming!

I pull my knees to my chin and hug them close. I close my eyes in anticipation.
"If you last five rounds, you will feel so good. You'll see. You know it's true. You will not be in pain tomorrow after the today's boxing session. And the weights, you overdid it again. Just hang in here."
Whatever, I could just do sauna, in fact I think I'm gonna go right now, it's just nextdoor...
"No you don't!!! Sit down. You're gonna chicken out for a bit of fog?! Shame on you!"
Ohhhh why do I ever listen to you, OK, I'll sit....let's just be done with this.

Then it comes, sudden explosion of sound and steam.
PhhssssssSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

My heart starts thumping and I feel goosebumps all over. My limbs turn heavy and weak.
This is what it felt like when they released CycloneB at the prisoners in concentration camps, this is exactly it! Why do I trust complete strangers at some random sports club? This steam could be anything! In fact I think I'm suffocating! This is it, I'm getting out!
"Of fer crying out loud! You trust them because you pay them 100 dollars a month, stupid. They would all rot in jail long ago. People do this all the time. You know it's great for exfoliation!"
I so don't care right now about some exfoliation! My life is in jeopardy here!
"Oh yes you do. You say you don't, but of course you do. Besides, exfoliation diminishes the risk of cancer, did you know that?"
Of course I know! I can exfoliate some other way and certainly someplace else.
"Oh yeah? You're gonna buy the fancy exfoliating shower gel with plastic beads? You do know that they don't disintegrate. You do know they go through all the filters and all the way into the ocean and fish choke on them because they are exactly the same size as plankton."
What? So I'm here because of the fish? This is insane. You are insane!

PfhsssssssSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Yikes.

"See? that was not nearly as scary as the first one. You even enjoy it, I know you."

Well it is less terrible, I admit. And skin is pealing off of me in droves. I'm gonna have a baby back, yes I will, yes I will. But it's hot and I've been here for hours, this cannot be healthy, I'll probably just die of a heart attack. In fact I'm a littl queasy alredy.

"Well if you stop fidgeting and just give it a chance. Lie down or something."

OK, I'll give you one more round, just because I was such a chicken.

PfhhsssssSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Hey.

"What?"

Nothing. It's OK. I'm a little thirsty and hot, but I do admit that you were right. This is relaxing.

"Well I'm a little thirsty myself."

You know, we have a cold cold IPA in the fridge at home. Can you see its golden gleam? Can you see the condensed pearls of sweat on the bottle? Can you hear the cap popping open and the fizzing of the beer out of the bottle?"

"Yeah. I can hear that."

It's been almost three rounds. Are we good? I promise the next time I'll last five. Why, even tomorrow if you want.

"OK. Let's bail."

Talk to our friendly employees and do check our website!

I just accepted a job offer in The Hague. I am as excited as The Happy Goat (surely a bad omen). I was offered at a conference in Bristol. It's the closing dinner and some silly dancing with new to-be-colleagues. With a suitcase in hand, I rush to catch the 10:30pm train from Bristol to London, Paddington. Still in high heels, dressed up from closing dinner, I put the suitcase on a luggage rack and happily settle into my seat. Luckily I have all night in London, I'll just get to the airport and catch a few hours of sleep there. I stare out of the window, contemplating life in The Hague. Train is swarming with pimpled British kids returning home from parties. It's also swarming with one Suspicious Individual, also a pimpled British kid, who is eyeing me strangely. He sits behind me and I am convinced I feel tugging at my coat as if he was trying to get into my pocket or purse. He doesn't know however that he's dealing with the Worldly and Street-smart Traveller. I take my coat and purse and place them in my lap ostentatively, turn around and stare the Suspicious Individual down. That's right, kiddo. I know your game.

Suspicious Individual leaves, then comes back with a beer, then leaves again. At least five times. Each time he passes, we have a staring contest. I check my suitcase, it's still on the luggage rack.

British kids are loud and obnoxious, drinking beer and joking about. I am outdoing myself in giving them the evil eye, till I finally tire and drift to sleep. I check my suitcase, it's still on the luggage rack. We're in Reading, only one more stop to go.

Can't wait to get off and make it to the airport to get a few hours of sleep on a bench somewhere. We're arriving in Paddington, yay. People crowd by the door, I get my purse and a coat and go for my suitcase.... it's gone. I stare at the empty luggage rack in disbelief. Looking around in panic. I even think I see a glimpse of my suitcase in the crowd rushing away from the platform, but for some reason I don't run after it. Instead I search frantically for a train conductor. I find one and together we turn the train upside down, though it makes little sense.

Bitter and resigned, I go find police officer somewhere. Two nice chaps took me in to the train police station and started writing up the report. That's when it all actually started.

See, I was to catch a plane at 8:40 am....plenty of time, one would think. My train from Bristol pulled in at 12:30am. But this is Britain.

One of the nice police chaps tells me the subway doesn't run at night. He gets online and finds out that there is "engineering work" being done on the First Capital Connect line to the aiport. He prints out the schedule for me - the first subway leaves at 6:23am. Cutting it close, but doable.

At 6:23am, I am tapdancing in front of the platform 15 and 16, from which the said subway is supposed to leave. The grumpy employee that I pull out from the kiosk there tells me they don't open till 6:40am. A bit nervous, I consult the grumpy kiosk guy on the best course of action. He sends me to Farringdon station, assuring me there is no engineering work done today...after all, it's Sunday. The train comes at 7am.

At Farringdon, I run to the platform for the Lutton ariport. Closed. I go find another grumpy kiosk guy. There are no trains until 1 pm, but I am sure to catch a train from King's Cross....just one stop over. It's about 7: 20 by now.

King's Cross is a frikkin maze. I run from this end to that, finally find the appropriate platform. No luck. I find yet another, this time extremely grumpy kiosk guy and he says there is engineering on the line. I shove my prinout from the web under his nose, but it does not seem to move him much. Perhaps he was beaten as a child.

I must find a cab STAT. If I miss this flight to Vienna, I might miss my connection to Boston. I attempt to find a cab that takes credit cards. Aaaaahahahahahaha.

That only takes me another 20 minutes. Finally I find one that takes pity on me. There's a 15% surcharge, as if I care anymore. Total is close to 140 GBP. I am stoicism impersonated. With just a hint of a bitter aftertaste.

The cab pulls into the airport at 8:40 am. My flight has left. I call my mother and sob like a silly school girl. Back to stoicism impersonated. I buy another flight to Vienna, where my mom will meet me with food, clean t-shirt, and underwear. May god bless and keep my mother in good health forever and ever amen.

Upon my return to Boston, I started an immensely entertaining conversation with the First Capital Connect.

I emailed them to complain that a) the information I got from their website was incorrect, and that b) their employees have mislead me three times, sending me to wrong stations and giving me bad information. I wrote a long detailed treatise about what happened step by step, minute by minute, and how much it ended up costing me.

 This is the gem of a response I received:

We recommend that customers always check their journey times with National Rail Enquiries on 08457 484950 before travel as timetables can change at short notice. Alternatively journey details can be checked on the internet at www.nationalrail.co.uk... The stations teams at manned stations are always happy to provide assistance with any enquiries.

Brilliant. They advise me to check their website and talk to their friendly employees. I knew it. I shouldn't have been so excited about the new job. The Happy Goat fate got me good this time.

what kind of birthday cards do YOU get?

Lemuralia, the day of the Larvae

Ovid notes that at this festival it was the custom to appease or expel the evil spirits by walking barefoot and throwing black beans over the shoulder at night. It was the head of the household who was responsible for getting up at midnight and walking around the house with bare feet throwing out black beans and repeating the incantation, "With these beans I redeem me and mine" nine times. The household would then clash bronze pots while repeating, "Ghosts of my fathers and ancestors, be gone!"nine times.

It's also the day when I officially become wiser and more respectable each year. Just my luck to share this day with larvae. Throw some beans over your shoulder for me... Or have a burrito.

One little, two little, three little cockroaches

Another repost, as I have been treacherously blogging elsewhere for some time...

Hyderabad, 2007

I am attempting to upload something to my work website for umpteenth time, when electricity goes out again. I should have known. It's 4pm, it happens at around that time every day. Everything you're working on is guzzled by the innards of the computer, never to be released again. I try again after it comes back, everything takes forever, it's like swimming in molasses. Not that there's anything wrong with swimming in molasses if that's what you like. By 8pm I give up, I am also hungry as hell, and there's not much to be had in the dorm cafeteria- I should have come earlier. Florina talks me into going out to eat. Fine. Yay even.

We set out, walking against traffic on a dusty road. Why no sidewalks? Oh, that's because this is supposed to be a highway, she enlightened me. Dust is in my eyes and nose. If I mastered anything during my four stays in India, it's the staring. You can stare at me for as long as you please, I won't wince. I, the street-smart worldly traveler, know better than to stare back. If I go about my way and pretend I walk on this side of the road every day, even though they could probably count the amount of white people that passed through here on fingers of one hand, I'm fine. Almost normal.

Anyway, we pass a Muslim wedding, where we don't go, because Florina explains to me that I could only give well wishes to the bride. The groom is kept separate. They will meet tonight. In the bedroom. For the first time. Oy vey. I remind myself to thank heavens for my good fortunes every day.

We get to the "hotel" – which is a shack on the side of a road. That's what they're called. Tonight they have biryani or roti with curry chicken and/or chicken tandoori. So easy. No need to crack one's brain with what to pick from the menu. The place is dimly lit, metal tables have been wiped, that's obvious. What were they wiped with though is not. I don't wanna know. Two girls out alone, one of them white as a wall - we call attention of all the men around. No women anywhere in sight. And I see far. Food arrives on metal plates covered with newspapers. Rajeshwari Jewelry House is the best around, it announces. Talking to Florina I notice a decent sized cockroach on the wall behind her. I wish I didn't. Soon enough a small one comes to greet our roti on the table. Waah. My street-smart and worldly composure is tatam, as we Slovaks say (literally translated as "thethere" or "gogone". Don't ask). I cannot talk or listen, I see and imagine them everywhere. Turns out that what I first perceived as patterns on the walls were all cockroaches. Within seconds everything on me itches and chicken tastes fuzzy as if I had million hairy cockroach legs in my mouth. Collecting last bits of dignity I employ all my remaining concentration on maintaining some sort of a sane facial expression. I'm aiming hard to appear casual and in good spirits, but it's a real stretch. I pull out stories about touring Gypsy villages in Eastern Slovakia to assert to the public (Florina) that I've been places and seen many things and remind myself that I have experiences under my belt and something like this cannot shake me. So what if I eat a cockroach. It's protein. Shudder.

After the lovely meal we get a sweet paan– beetle nut and coconut and cherry and whatnot wrapped in a beetle leaf. I never liked them too much, but I'll take anything to keep my mind busy. We walk home, most casually of course. After I say goodnight to Florina I high-tail it to my room, get two buckets that are there and go fetch warm water (there's only cold in the faucets and the weather is cold now. Well, cold for a cold shower that is) and give myself a good scrub. That's the kind of a heroine I am. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. (Many, actually. And there are sirens. What the BLEEP is going on?! O`1h well, time to go to bed.)

Fat bastard, little dog, and civic action

Repost from elsewhere...

It is hard to leave New York. I was determined to get on the bus at 6pm. But spending the afternoon at MoMa with Michaela, I lingered. From 6 became 7, then we made dinner out of it, with more friends.

Finally I got to Port Authority at 10pm, joining the red, white, and blue snake of people baseball-hatted with Red Sox hats. Damn, nobody informed me that Red Sox played the Yankees today, which means half of Boston is trying to get back along with me. A little frog-eyed pug was prancing up and down, panting, looking up at everybody with his puggly eyes. We wait. And we wait. Apparently one bus has come and gone, we are the leftovers that have to wait for an extra bus to be sent.

After about an hour of waiting, it comes. We stuff ourselves on the bus like sardines, and resume waiting. We wait ten minutes, twenty, nothing happens. Suddenly the bus terminal security comes and inquires after a "dog in a plastic bag". Apparently someone complained about a dog on board. A young girl steps forth with the little pug, who is fortunately not at all in a plastic bag. They take her off the bus. Bus is murmuring with disapproval. My neighbor, a young slim woman but with a voice of a hurricane, stands up, pointing at a big grouchy man with thick glasses.

"It was him. He complained. The girl just spent her last money on the ticket and now she'll be stuck in New York because of the fat jerk. The dog couldn't have bothered him, he was at the back of a bus, in a bag!

A young man assumed a role of a negotiator. Any way we could accommodate both? If you sit in the front and the girl with the dog in the back? No. The fat man wouldn't have it. He's allergic, and we should all leave him alone. He won't have the dog on board. More people pitched in with persuading and commenting. The jerk proceeds to insult everyone. All my inclinations to reconcile the masses went down the drain when he referred to the Rutgers basketball team in connection with my neighbor. I was perfectly willing to let anyone shred him to pieces then.

"Wait what I'll do to you when we get off the bus in Boston!" said the fat jerk to the negotiator.

"Are you threatening me, sir? Did everyone hear that?"

"Yeah! We all heard him, get him off the bus!" bus roars.

Negotiator went to get the security. By now the bus is two hours late. Security comes back and asks the man to step off the bus. He won't. We are asked whether we want to proceed to Boston with him, since we're so late already, or call 911.

"Call 911! I don't feel safe with a racist on board!" someone exclaims.

I try to convince the jerk that it's not worth his or our time to be holding everyone up, but he won't budge. "It's a matter of principle!" he exclaims. I roll my eyes, and step outside for a smoke. Finally the police comes and they drag him out during wild cheering of the bus.

In the meantime, the girl with the pug was displaced. A group of volunteers sets off in search of her. When they emerge victoriously, holding the pug up above their heads, his feet sticking up in the air stiffly, another round of hollering ensues. Finally we start for Boston. We'll get there around 4am. Ack. As I drift to sleep, the negotiator is passing around his phone number. He's having a barbecue tomorrow, and wants the whole bus to be there. I have to do this Greyhound thing more often. There sure is more action than in the last James Bond movie.

Happy Goat on skis

I am a Good Skier. Always have been. Why, I skied before I walked.

That is why I was determined to get some skiing in this winter, even if I go alone. I signed up with Boston Ski and Sports Club, and off I went to Sunday River.

On the Day D, I took a cab to the bus. I was as excited as the Happy Goat from the proverbial Slovak fable that went dancing on ice.

This Happy Goat loves steep and loves speed. The Force is with her. Trouble is, they don't do mountains here the way they do them in Slovakia. Here, they believe in the Mogul. Those wicked things are everywhere, especially since it's been snowing for 3 days in a row.

The Happy Goat assumes the position and pummels downwards. She's stopped in her tracks by 3 feet deep snow. With a still excited grin on her face, the Goat is detached from her skis and propelled 5 meters up into thin air.

Repeat 130 times.

By the time the Happy Goat realizes the approach might be at fault and not the skis, she is wet throughout, collecting 130 scoops of wet powder under the shirt and pants and socks and underwear.

This Happy Goat at least didn't break her neck like the proverbial Happy Goat that went dancing on ice due to extreme happiness. She was just sick for two weeks and pulled her shoulder so that she still cannot move it well 3 months later.

So, remember what happens to the Happy Goat. Do not get overly excited. It can cost you life.

Back in the hood.

I tried them all. Just as other cyber adolescents, I was lured by the new hip kids on the block. My love affairs with myspace and facebook were much like the real life ones. Hot, passionate, all consuming, devoted, unconditional, and.....short-lived. Leaving behind a taste of annoyance, obscure hurried shame, disappointment, and that nihilism feeling that nothing really matters as we all muddle through just to survive, and all else is a lie to cover up the fact that all we'll ever amount to is a few pounds of rotting flesh and a heap of bones. I will get cremated, of course.

Thus I'm back to this hollow willow (another Slovakism, I imagine. You figure it out, use some cross-cultural imagination), because "writing so as not to die or perhaps even speaking so as not to die, is a task undoubtedly as old as the word itself."

I've no news of import. I got engaged and disengaged, got a job for which I'll be moving to The Hague, wrote some chapters for some books, played in few theatre plays, nothing out of the ordinary. Just marking my territory here after the winter sleep.

Indian Diary of a Worldly and Streetsmart Traveler No. 3

August 13, 2006.

I am sitting on a train, on the way to Newark to catch my flight to Delhi. I am typing up a training manual for young business school students who are involved in a student group studying causes of communal violence and prevention of open conflict. My mind is stuck in an analytical mode. It’s a lot of ‘how tos’ ‘what to do whens’… While writing, I noticed a guy across the isle and decided to write a manual about him. He’s a busy one, fidgeting about, doing this and that, thus providing me with a lot of material for observation. My neighbor (ugly pimpled little shrimp, must be a virgin still) is writing a porn story about some Lie “getting plowed [sic!] from behind”, thus I need to do everything in my power to stay focused on my screen. Shudder.

WORLDLY AND STREETSMART TRAVELER’S GUIDE TO SPOTTING A TRAVELER FROM CAPE COD:
To determine whether or not the subject of your observation is indeed returning from Cape Cod, you will need to focus on the following:
1) Appearance and behavior
2) Edible items
3) Print material

1) Appearance and behavior:
1a) The Cape Cod returnee would be clad in casual summery items. He may be wearing khaki pants of a light coloring, white sneakers or flip flops. In latter case try to discern whether the subject has sand stuck to his toes. Fingernails may be dirty, unless the subject has OCD and cleans nails compulsively (please refer to the section 1b) on OCD spotting below). The t-shirt may depict a crab or somesuch sea creature. Over the t-shirt, the subject just might wear a linen blue and white checkered suit. If accompanying by wife, she, too, will be wearing a linen suit. They will be very clean and stiff looking.

1b) OCD spotting:
It might be of essential importance to determine whether the subject is OCD as that is a variable that has to be factored into the formula in order to avoid data pollution. OCD subject will most likely be brightly clean. He will stand up and sit down repeatedly to check his back pocket. If the subject is carrying a live lobster in a paper bag, he will also check on the lobster every five seconds and talk to it softly. Subject will leaf through the paper a few times before he starts reading it and he will make sure each page is neatly and appropriately folded. Then he will stand up a few times to check his back pocket again. Such subject will have clean toenails even if returning from Cape Cod (refer to section 1a) for details).

2) Edible items:
- Oyster crackers. Lots of them. Everywhere. Loud.
- Clam chowder. Smelly. Annoying. Spilling on neighbor who apparently finds that annoying as well.
- Live lobster. Really. Subject may prance around with it, taking it to the café coach for unfathomable reasons (To have it cooked? To have it put in water or fridge?), then come back and peak into the lobster’s paper bag and talk at it every now and then.

3) Print material:
Provincetown Magazine.
Post cards from Provincetown.
Whale watch leaflets from Provincetown. Subject will be waving them around ostentatiously while talking to spouse in animated fashion so as not to leave one soul behind and unaware that the subject has seen live whales recently. La-de-da.


If your subject scores highly on at least two out of the three items listed above, he is most likely coming from a vacation in Provincetown. The sooner you acknowledge this and pretend to be envious, the better will your chances be of him giving it up and leaving everybody alone.

So it begins...or the Indian Diary of the Worldly and Streetsmart Traveler No. 3

Movie. Must watch a movie. Have a beer. Sit down.

How do people do it? Shanti was telling me yesterday that she usually packs within half an hour. I started at 11am. It's 10pm now and I just closed the suitcase. I can say proudly that it is at least 1/2 empty, though for fairness' sake, I need to add that it's a monster of a suitcase. But it's the only one where the two giant paper rolls I'm bringing for our training would fit. Not that I pack in one go either. I don't do anything straightforwardedly. While I pack I find things that distsract me in the process. Thus I did my manicure and pedicure, since I found the dearly missed awesome nailfile that was hiding in a pile of papers, I stitched some missing buttons on things, went to buy another Wild Turkey bottle for Andreas to bring to Hyderabad (he requested two). I also washed my Timbuk2 bag and my Fighter Club sneakers and while I was collecting them from the garden where they were drying, I watered the lawn and all the plants. That's at least 4 hours of activities right there. Plus trying on all of my t-shirts to see which will cover my new tattoo. I'd rather not display it to the 200 students that are devoutedly Christian, conservative, timid, and uptight.

I wish they were handing out the Wild Turkey t-shirts with those bottles I bought. Since it's my dad's favorite bourbon as well, I've been buying it for some time. It came with a t-shirt once that depicts a very red turkey and says 'Wild Turkey' on it. That's all. Looks funny on my father, to say the least. It goes well with his collection of t-shirts, many of which are inheritance from my teenage years. There's the 'Psycho' t-shirt, the 'Nirvana In Utero' t-shirt, the crazy army t-shirt... He wears them all. To work. Combined with short shorts, long socks, and sandals. He's a professor, mind you. Oh well, I embraced it as a charming element of his character. I used to concern myself a great deal with what he wears, inspect his outfit before he leaves the house, but these days it actually warms my heart to see his silly outfits. Whenever he buys a piece of clothing for himself, it guarantees to be a lot of fun, if hideous. His suits have a colorful checkered inside that shows on cuffs and collar, his pants will have twenty pockets and fifty buttons... Seems that I'm homesick. If I could choose whether to fly to Hyderabad, New Zealand, Brazil, Rwanda, tropical islands of the Carribean, or Slovakia tomorrow, I would not hesitate. Well, I'd think about Rwanda for 10 seconds, but still. I am due to go home for awhile.
But I'm not going home. I'm going to Hyderabad. (Bummer. Oh poor me). Via Newark and New Delhi. There I meet David and Brigitt, and we'll stay in 'Hotel Star' near the airport. Hotel Star is sending a driver for 'Sir Dagmar" to pick us up. I reserved our rooms over email, and it seems that it never dawned on them I could possibly be a female. I am in charge, arranging things, I must be a Sir Dagmar. Sure made for a good nickname.
I shall watch Hotel Rwanda now to get ready for the trip. Don't ask me how, I'm not even sure how myself, but it does make perfect sense deep down in my head. The Department of Homeland Security and their freezing of all pending applications, which screwed me over big time, is to be thanked for my gloomy mood. But musn't grumble. There are always worse things in the world than not being able to work or possibly face deportation. Like... genocide. Which is why I read Dallaire, Gourevitch, or Powers in bed before I switch the lamp off.
I should seek inspiration from my five year old nephew. He repeated the mantra I taught him to me on the phone today:"I choose to be happy! I choose to be happy!" And he's bloody right.

Hotel Rwanda it is. Whee! More to come... from Hyderabad.

Babes in the woods

Cleopatra! the musical has moved to Provincetown. That means that once a week we pack ourselves into cars, curse our way through Boston traffic jams on the way out of town, and then drive for another two hours all the way to the end. These trips sometimes involve getting in touch with Nature. Which may be a problem.

Billy and Jimmy have wooden shacks in the woods of Truro, right outside of P-town. We left our cars there and carpooled downtown, as it's damn near impossible to park there. Upon our arrival, we saw a beige car already standing there, engine running. Passangers, consisting on Cleopatra herself, Siphylis, Fagonius, and Slut/hoofer, had no intentions to set a foot outside. We did manage to lure them out, but it was short lived. Mosquitoes, bugs, creepy crawly things of the forest were too much for this crowd. Slapping ensued. Afro ran for the car first, under two minutes. Stepher followed. Claudio exclaimed he's had enough nature for life and if he wants more, he'll flip on the Discovery channel.



Waiting for the van to pick us up, I sprawled on the grass in the sun, listening to gentle breeze through the treetops, buzzing of a honey bee, car engine, and Afro's yelps "There's one inside! Kill it! Kill it!"

Nature is way more tolerable from inside of an airconditioned car. Even if there is 9 of us packed into it. Orphans were bursting into merry songs. Althtough Afro would occasionally still burst into screaming at the sight of a surviving mosquito. Quite an adventure, I tell ya. I wish to lure these delicate creatures into woods more often. Something tells me that is but a pipe dream though.

That is disturbing!

Strangers that are smiling at each other on the subway are disturbing. I mean come on, it's supposed to be a grumpy, cranky experience. You're not meant to be pleasant to others. That freaks me out. Go get an effin' life!

Ex-es that are getting married in a few weeks writing "You've been on my mind a lot lately" are way too disturbing. What am I to do with this piece of information? Stick it in a pot and let it grow into a little coward tree?

Plastic bags are disturbing. Those should be outright outlawed. Especially in Eastern Europe, which has gone haywire with its plastic bag fetish.

Gimme Lean sausage that contains no meat, virtually no fat, no cholesterol, yet tastes wonderful is creepy. What sort of dark voodoo magic and sorcerism is that?!
Hardworking people. I don't understand them. I don't think they are human.

People that tear up when their old tractor dies ...(well, that is actually quite sweet).


Few hours later: I have a fresh addition to the list: Lies that turn into self-fulfilling prophecies freak me out, too. I got late to my boxing class, so I lied that I got a flat on my bike. It's conceivable. I bike everywhere. Well, two hours of torture later, when my shins felt like they were squeezed in the Spanish Boot (a nice medieval torturing equipment) for days and I couldn't even pedal without wanting to cry, I hear SSSSssssss - a FLAT! Gah. my good trusty gorgeous Univega was long overdue for a flat, last one I got about a year ago, but today?! I know gods were waiting for that moment and pinched the tire to get me back for all sorts of minor sins of this week. But still. Self-fulfilling lies are way too disturbing!

Currently listening: Pioneer By Auktyon Release date: By 06 June, 2006

Back in the Ring

Today I have to resort to drawings. Brain smashed to pieces, arms limb. General happy and stupid feeling. That's how I like it.
The Ring is different. Different from Schwarzweiss Boxzentrum, that is. There are many more trainers, and someone is always after you when you work out. There are classes three times a week, which is nothing but an expensive fetish club really. I'm paying $129 a month for a monster of a man to yell at me, force me to crawl on the floor, squat for forever and suffer insufferable pain.
I can't possibly describe every way of torture I had to endure. One stuck in mind, though. We lined up and watched the trainer, eyes wide with shock and horror, perform the routine we were about to mimic. He put himself into a pushup position, raised one arm one leg, and lounged forward, while going down into a pushup in this awkward twisted state. Then he lounged again, thrusting his other arm and leg forth. It was very impressive. He looked like a young Jackie Chan trying out one of his tricks. We were to do two rounds around the whole gym this way. Ha.

When we embarked on our epic journey around the gym, it looked, for some reason, different. I kept thinking of the Mystics in the Dark Crystal, how they moved slowly and in agony when they had to journey to re-unite with the Skeksis. Each time a Skeksi died, a Mystic would up and die, too. Poof! I sure felt like one, certainly one of those nearing death. My paws were in my way, butt too huge to hover above the ground for long. It's a good thing nobody I know saw me, although the doorman, who I call Ted, because he looks just like Ted the doorman from the Institute in Vienna, said that I did well and looked best in that 'flopping mess'.

I also have a confession to make. The Ring is an American boxing club. Men there are civilized, polite, PC, do not stare at you and ask "you..will you party with me?" suggestively. I miss the crazy Serbians, Albanians, Chechnyans. I miss (some of) the attention, smirks, winks, and smacks. I miss Magda and I bitching about the "White Sweater" and how he won't go away from his staring stool at the bar. Or teasing Gogi and Elephant Boy mercilessly. It is ridiculous, silly, vain, but it is so. What would happen to an American male if he let go every now and then? I would not sue, I swear!

Vanity leads to Insanity

Take it from me, children. Vanity leads to insanity. Not that insanity is necessarily a bad thing, but there are better things in the world. World peace, for example. Or a cranberry chicken salad.

In any case, few weeks back, I received an email from an esteemed professor of an esteemed university in Vienna. He is putting together a book on citizenship policies, and the draft on Slovakia was done by an ex-classmate of mine. It reeked to high heavens. Can I edit/ re-write it?

"Ooooh, how jolly!", my inner ego, or Id (whichever of the buggers has these subjects in its job description) clapped its hands. They turn to ME, of all people! I am tickled pink. I squirm in the chair for a few seconds (cannot reply immediately, that is sooo below me), and then type hastily:
"I will be glad to re-write the chapter, it seems to be right up my alley" (read: I have not the first clue about the subject, don't even know where to begin looking...)

So I got myself into this mess. I have not read the draft before I blurted out my overjoyed agreement to be the co-author. I had to pack up my entire apartment next week and move, if only across the street (that would be a topic for a separate post). I had a newsletter to put together, edit, and mail out for work. No matter. I'm a superwoman, I can do everything. Right.

The moving took up, as it does, way more time than one plans. Deadline came and went, and I was still hauling boxes of books, Aztec statuettes, spices and single socks (you never know when the twin sock re-appears!) from the apartment on 54 to the one on 59. On Sunday I finally sat down to what I thought would be a day, maximum two, of editing. It became painfully obvious to me within an hour that I should have read - and declined- the job before I responded. The English was so horrendous I couldn't understand it even in Slovak syntax, considering all possible words and idioms that the author could have had in mind. Rest was a mumble-jumble of legal quotes (quoted in a wrong format). Then came this 'analysis' that made my eyes bulge out of my skull. Even the notorious nationalist Slota, who peed drunk out of a restaurant balcony not too far from my home in Bratislava, could not trump it.

Needless to say, editing was a Sisyphos' battle. I trudged through it for hours and hours, not sleeping on Sunday, sleeping only 2 hours on Monday....with still more to go. Hastily, I was adding sources so that the analysis has a head and a heel, as we clever Slovaks say. One of the sources that I found made my heart stop. It sounded so familiar, where have I come across it.... With suspicion I scroll through the chapter draft.... there it is. Translated word to word...no attribution. Holy smokes. I wonder where other "analyses" in the draft come from. I google a few sentences here and there.... all lifted, plagiarized, swiped, scrounged, pilfered, filched, mooched, cribbed, dipped...well, stolen (uh, sorry, got a little carried away with my WDICT32 Translator program here). It is Tuesday, my brain is fried, as are my eyes. At this point I am attacking the text randomly, ploughing through it to add sources, change wording, cite what can be cited. And ignoring calls and emails from work and home. Everybody's pissed off at me at this point. And I'm pissed off at me, the chapter sucks, as do I. Bitter, furious at the original author for her audacity to plagiarize worse than my freshmen, and at self for vanity and idiocy, tired to the point of having twitches and spasms in random parts of my body, where I didn't even know I had muscles, I finally send the sucker to the editor on Wednesday night (well, Thursday morning, to be frank), being able to read it over once, barely. I fall asleep, out in a coma. I sleep right through an important work meeting (standing the poor woman up in a coffee shop), and a few more phone calls. One colleague of mine is now convinced I dislike her and don't want to work with her any more. My mother believes she insulted me in some way and is now inquiring what has she done to deserve the dead silence from me. Editor writes back that he is 'generally happy' with the chapter, but has many comments and 'suggestions'. I will never catch up on emails. My reputation will be forever tarnished with this ogre of a chapter. They would probably fire me, if they could. All I can say, just as that raven did (well, him, and the international society after the Holocaust) is :"Never more!"
So, I picked myself up and dragged myself to The Ring. I took a free trial boxing session with a personal trainer, and all of my troubles floated away. Or were punched into the heavy bag. And the trainer....so handsome, so well sculpted, so funny, so....divine. Back to boxing. That is the world for Dasha. None of this academic crap. I'll leave that to the birds!