Holocaust Memorial

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONTggx6xJgA

The Last Coffee Shop

          The last coffee shop I visited was near the Hilversun train station. Not Hilversun Noord Station, the one three minutes south where I got off to make my transfer to Berlin an hour before and realized it didn't exist. Just plain Hilversun - the station commonly referred to as "Nenkbeench" or "Nobench" by the Dutch, as it is thought to be the only multi-platform station in the region, perhaps all of Europe, that offers nowhere for its passengers to sit while they wait for the next train.
          The coffee shop was called "Coffee Shop." A middle-aged Middle Eastern man of medium height and build was behind the bar - with exactly four feet of counterspace on either side of him, if I recall correctly. He was speaking in Arabic with three other men. He said, "hello" to Anthony and I. We said we wanted drinks and he pointed to the joints menu. I said lemon iced tea and he handed me a can of peach iced tea. We went to the back and rolled a joint from coffee we already had. Then I thought it best not to smoke in the shop, equating it to bringing your own six pack into a bar. Then  I thought it best not to smoke at all, equating it to purposefully making myself easily confused before engaging in an activity that I already failed at while I was less easily confused. The iced tea was terrible, like drinking the saliva of someone who'd been chewing gummy peach rings.

A Tribute to Mr. Horvath

Peter!
You, who
picked me up, plus one, from
the train station and did not
hesitate to put us both up for five
nights in your spotless living room.
You, who
had one of the largest pizzas
I have ever seen waiting on
your dining room table,
who,
took us to the pub that night,
though you had to work
the next morning.
You, who
brought us along to your hometown
to meet your wonderful parents, who
had the best meal of my trip
ready to eat, and who got us
drunk on beer and Hungarian liquor
at two in the afternoon, and gave
us wine, more liquor, and cigars
as parting gifts.
You, who
drove us further, to another town,
and introduced us to more of
your family, warm and welcoming
despite hardly understanding us,
at the birthday party for your
one year old cousin, Bence.
You, who
drove us still further, while
we slept, to the hometown of
your girlfriend Anna, where you
took us to the party, a DJ
festival at an arena, and...
And Anna's parents, who put
us up that night in their
new home and fed us
breakfast in the morning.
And you, who
took us Go-Kart racing that
day on the fastest Go-Karts
I have ever seen.
You, who gave me perfect
directions (bus, train, bus)
to the airport, and showed
me the cheapest flight to
Amsterdam.
You, who
cooked for us,
fed us,
paid for far too much of it,
who let us use your washing machine,
even your toothbrush (just kidding... or am I?)
Mr. Horvath, you, I salute!


Take care, Peter. Hope to see you again soon.

Click here for some Budapest pictures (admittedly I may have gotten carried away with Picassa photo editing)

A Couple Videos

Bence drinks some water

Peter's special program for Sunday

Looking Out the Train Window

            Daytime, whether I sat facing the engine or the (imagined) caboose, I could not shake the sensation that I was watching everything fly by in reverse.

            Night, the lit interior of the cabin reflected off the glass, and the flipped image of me looking out at a world moving backwards left me infinitely befuddled.

         

Prague Addendum (Velvet Anniversary)

              Because I was sleepy, I napped through the parade. I dreamt I was sitting on the end of a bench at the bottom of an escalator, whistling. An attractive young Czech woman dressed as a construction worker reached the bottom of the escalator, tripped, and stumbled on to the other end of the bench. The whole display appeared very contrived and purposeful. The rest of the construction crew exited the escalator smoothly and continued walking, disappearing into the crowd. I kept whistling, the same three or four notes over and over, and noticed the girl becoming agitated, until she abruptly stood, now visibly angry, and walked away. Instantly, it became clear to me that she had wanted me to talk to her. I got up and searched, but I couldnt catch sight of her. I only heard her mocking me, her whistle getting fainter and fainter.
              Czechs hate public whistling, but I dont think thats why my dream woman was angry. I have been told the parade ends near the Narodni Trida metro stop, which is where I will be going soon for a celebratory concert. I expect the music to suck. Or, at least, if it doesnt, it should suck, because that would be the most accurate depiction of what has happened in the past twenty years - if at Narodni, with one of the many fast food chains or clothing stores ("be surprised by seven floors of shoes¦") in the area as a backdrop, Miley Cyrus got on stage and everybody rocked out. Much of the city space and youth culture is now controlled by corporations. And, getting back to my dream, if I were Czech it would piss me off that so many people - even though it is right in front of their face - seem content to keep merrily whistling through the day anyway.
             Now I am heading over there, but when I catch the parade, I dont think it will just seem like Im celebrating the fall of communism. It will seem like Im also celebrating the rise of capitalism, and I will feel like a liar.

Prague

Taking a right off a crowded street, you suddenly find yourself alone on a narrow cobblestone road. In the stillness, you walk past a chalkboard sign advertising hot wine and beer in two colours, an open window where the smell of tobacco wafts out, a pigeon. Then there is a loud, grating noise in the distance, getting closer. You turn a corner and find several laborers digging up part of your path, and several others sanding it down. You move past them quickly, searching for the tranquility you had moments before, when you stumble upon a man blowing his nose. He looks at you and tells you that God is dead. Rather, God can be heard through a symphony, if you would like. If you would like, he can show you where you can refresh your cock and get six Pilsners for three hundred crowns.

You keep walking because you don’t trust someone who looks you in the eye and smiles so willingly. You take the escalator down to the metro. It is crowded, but quiet, except for some tourists, drunk on alcohol, or travel, or both. A young couple is leaned against the wall making out. The girl is wearing a pair of sparkling Nike hightops, the boy has his hair cut close, minus a patch in the back and a line down the middle of his head. There is a woman – wearing several layers of worn clothing and carrying a cane – with a dog that looks old and tired of slowly following her around all day. A metal muzzle surrounds his mouth, and you wonder if he would like to eat you with a side of fava beans.

You get off the metro and buy a hot chocolate from the Nescafe machines that line the wall, winking at Reese Witherspoon’s perfume ad as you take a sip. You go to the grocery store to buy dinner. The store smells like a heavily disinfected bakery, and Michael Jackson plays from the speakers in the ceiling. The lines are long, but they move quickly. Your groceries total 195 crowns. The woman behind the counter coughs and asks you if you have 95 crowns when you hand her a 200.

The cars threaten to run you over every time you step onto the crosswalk, but always stop in time, and you don’t take it personally, because it doesn’t seem like anybody else does. You open your three dollar pint of vodka and take a sip. It tastes pretty good, for three dollars at least. Later, when you put it in the freezer, it freezes.

The bar you are led to by someone who knows someone who knows of a place is tiny. But then there is a staircase, and a basement, and then a room off the basement, and then another staircase, and another room, and another staircase, and soon you can’t remember how to leave, but you don’t want to anyways. A vent would be nice, but by now you’re mostly used to the plumes of spliffs and cigarettes. You don’t want to get lost in the tram system again, and you don’t want to get ripped off by a cab driver, so you stay out until past five when the metro starts running.

To save time, you slide down the middle of the escalator when you arrive at the station, and a grumpy worker awakens from his brooding slumber in his booth to come out and yell at you in Czech. When the train arrives, it is mostly empty. You take a seat across from a woman and her young daughter. The girl is enthralled in some sort of handheld video game, and wearing a pair of knee high black boots, laced tightly. The mother is one of about five dressed for work, though they are in the minority to those that are sleeping, and soon you join the latter.

The next day, you curse the man who decided to make it legal to sell absinth, but not ibuprofen. Luckily, there are six Asian food restaurants within walking distance. Even though you feel a little guilty for interrupting the owner – in the midst of ironing when you enter – a hot, greasy pile of noodles is just what you need. Or, at least, you thought you did. You only finish half, and get the rest to go. The owner asks if everything was okay, and you assure her it was, and that’s why you want to save it for later, but this doesn’t seem to work, because you notice that she screams at the cook before giving you your check. You try and make amends by leaving a nice tip.

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