Kitchen conversation or absurdist play? Round 1

When my study-abroad pal Michelle visited in November, she said kitchen conversations with my landlord and his girlfriend were like a sitcom. When Micaela, who speaks more German, visited in January, she offered a corrective: indie comedy-drama (more awkward silences than a sitcom.) After this morning's interaction with the housemate-who-is-the-landlord's-girlfriend, I have another suggestion: symbolist theater.

Belated Budapest Blogpost

Arriving at Budapest Keleti

My trip to Budapest was already a month ago, undertaken with my mother and sister. And (obviously) I haven't written about it yet. It's not just that I don't feel I really got to know the city; it's that, more strongly than in any other place I've visited, I was acutely conscious of being an outsider in it. It trumpets its history everywhere, in architecture stately and extravagant, in statues of sentimental 19th-century curves and starkly aspiring Soviet lines. And in a city with a history as long, as complicated, as laden with conflict and oppression and resistance as that of Budapest, that made my historian's hairs stand on end; Shakespeare's fretful porcupine came to mind. This was all complicated by the fact that, as a tourist, I found myself thoroughly seduced. The city is beautiful, Buda on its fortified and palace-crowned hill, Pest spreading elegantly out on the edge of unending plains. Narrow lanes and elegant boulevards, the vast Danube, decaying apartment blocks and well-kept parks; all these I loved. And yet.

But where are the bodegas? An ode to NYC

I try not to indulge feelings of homesickness too much, but as the days lengthen (northern sun pouring in my window at 6) and my time here lengthens, I find myself more than usually missing New York. Or perhaps it's just the cumulative missing of things that's catching up with me. But as weekend festivals open up here, I miss being in a city where I have people to go to such things with. Here, brass bands are present (hooray) but marginalized by globalization in the form of American pop. I miss the street festivals with Sicilian and Calabrian standards mixing with jitterbug, and people dancing to them, or sitting back and chatting with their neighbors; the festivals with salsa and bachata and merengue pulsing joyously from enormous speakers. I love Bischofsheim's vegetable stand, but I miss the Arthur Avenue Covered Market, where I get to stop for a chat with Mr. Liberatore, the florist, and where the most gregarious of the Boiano brothers, who run the largest fruit-and-veg stall, showed me his knack for sautéing artichokes.