Does this not disturb anyone else?
Friday, September 08, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Széchenyi: The Best Turkish Bath Eh-ver
---------------------------------------------------------------
History museums are major endeavors for me -- not even The Bob goes through them with as fine a toothed comb. I read every, single, word. I look at every, single, picture. I try to absorb every, single, bit of knowledge like a sponge that's been taken out of the wrapper and dropped immediately into Niagara Falls. In short, I love history museums.
But when I walk outside, intent on heading to the Magyar National Museum to finish up where I left off last Thursday, and see a sky like the one you see here, my mind is made up for me: I ain't going to no history museum.
While I travel around the world, I'm living life by the seat of my pants -- or, my boxers, if I change course and head to a Turkish bath after leaving the apartment. That's because I don't have keys to the place, and Budapest isn't exactly like West University. People definitely lock their doors here. What I take with me when I leave in the morning is what I have with me until I return at night.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I con't beLEEVE you forgot your PONTS!" Suzie, one of my new British friends, exclaimed in an Oliver Twist accent. "You're ot a Tuhr-kish BAWTH!"
I laughed and tried to explain: I hadn't planned on coming to Széchenyi until I walked outside that afternoon, took one breath, and impulsively headed southeast, rather than southwest.
The fact that, as I walked around the huge complex of outdoor and indoor pools -- one of several hundred visitors on the day -- I seemed to be clothed in nothing more than a sheet of opaque, gray Saran Wrap was simply the price I had to pay for not planning for such a contingency.
It was obviously a good-enough explanation for Suzie, and we continued to bask in the 16 degree Celsius (in other words, freakin' cold) tub of water -- just what the doctor orders when you've spent five minutes in a sauna that makes the surface of the sun seem like Antarctica.
The best part of Széchenyi isn't merely the fact that you can sit outdoors, basking in the warmth provided by the cloudless skies above -- it's the little circular thing in the lukewarm pool that spins people around like a washing machine. You can be rest assured that this presented a little problem for me: Either I could swim with two arms and keep my head easily above the surface, but let the jets of water -- spaced out by about a meter and a half -- progressively shoot my boxers down to my knees, or I could catch a few mouthfuls of water here and there -- as my head inevitably dipped below the surface -- by choosing to use one hand for swimming, and the other for holding up my underpants by the elastic waistband.
Most of the times I went around -- and that was a lot of times -- I chose the latter. But there were a few times when I said "Ah, what the hell." But only for a few seconds.
The American guy traveling with the trio of British girls I met, Robert, was loving the fact that he could grow a beard. As a swimmer on full scholarship at Monmouth, he had spent his summer traveling around Europe, getting incredibly out of shape for someone who is probably used to looking like a Greek God, and going to jail in Greece for running around his hostel in the nude.
(If you ask Robert his Athens story, he sums it up in four words: "Ouzo, ouzo, ouzo, jail.")
Robert is the bearded one not playing chess, in case your monitor is in black and white.
Once again, The Luck of the Traveler struck when I went to Széchenyi, because I met Robert, Suzie, Katherine and Sophie right as we all walked in the front door together. We only chilled for a few hours, but they taught me a lot: Don't run around naked in Athens; my vaunted British accent actually sucks; I should plan more and bring a bathing suit with me if I go to a Turkish bath; even foreigners know how awesome Austin, Tx. is; it is possible to wash your hair if you have dreads; the list goes on.
But Sophie taught me something especially important after we had said our apparent goodbyes, when I was sitting out on the front steps re-reading Balkan Ghosts: Don't leave my bag sitting next to me in broad daylight. She swooped down, a flash of blonde locks streaking across the corner of my screen, "nicked" my bag, and took off running.
I was ready to chase some Hungarian down; instead, I heard two girls laughing behind me, and I knew within 0.3 seconds that I had been the victim of a prank.
"You should take bettuh cair of youhr things," Sophie said, smiling, as she handed me back my bag that had my passport in it.
Sophie, don't worry, I have been -- my bag is firmly tucked between my feet as I sit in this outdoor cafe posting my story about you.
Oh, and just so you three girls know: Shrinkage does exist. Especially after sitting in 16 degree water. Texans are much bigger than that if they remember to bring their bathing suits to a Turkish bath.
---------------------------------------------------------------
History museums are major endeavors for me -- not even The Bob goes through them with as fine a toothed comb. I read every, single, word. I look at every, single, picture. I try to absorb every, single, bit of knowledge like a sponge that's been taken out of the wrapper and dropped immediately into Niagara Falls. In short, I love history museums.
But when I walk outside, intent on heading to the Magyar National Museum to finish up where I left off last Thursday, and see a sky like the one you see here, my mind is made up for me: I ain't going to no history museum.
While I travel around the world, I'm living life by the seat of my pants -- or, my boxers, if I change course and head to a Turkish bath after leaving the apartment. That's because I don't have keys to the place, and Budapest isn't exactly like West University. People definitely lock their doors here. What I take with me when I leave in the morning is what I have with me until I return at night.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I con't beLEEVE you forgot your PONTS!" Suzie, one of my new British friends, exclaimed in an Oliver Twist accent. "You're ot a Tuhr-kish BAWTH!"
I laughed and tried to explain: I hadn't planned on coming to Széchenyi until I walked outside that afternoon, took one breath, and impulsively headed southeast, rather than southwest.
The fact that, as I walked around the huge complex of outdoor and indoor pools -- one of several hundred visitors on the day -- I seemed to be clothed in nothing more than a sheet of opaque, gray Saran Wrap was simply the price I had to pay for not planning for such a contingency.
It was obviously a good-enough explanation for Suzie, and we continued to bask in the 16 degree Celsius (in other words, freakin' cold) tub of water -- just what the doctor orders when you've spent five minutes in a sauna that makes the surface of the sun seem like Antarctica.
The best part of Széchenyi isn't merely the fact that you can sit outdoors, basking in the warmth provided by the cloudless skies above -- it's the little circular thing in the lukewarm pool that spins people around like a washing machine. You can be rest assured that this presented a little problem for me: Either I could swim with two arms and keep my head easily above the surface, but let the jets of water -- spaced out by about a meter and a half -- progressively shoot my boxers down to my knees, or I could catch a few mouthfuls of water here and there -- as my head inevitably dipped below the surface -- by choosing to use one hand for swimming, and the other for holding up my underpants by the elastic waistband.
Most of the times I went around -- and that was a lot of times -- I chose the latter. But there were a few times when I said "Ah, what the hell." But only for a few seconds.
The American guy traveling with the trio of British girls I met, Robert, was loving the fact that he could grow a beard. As a swimmer on full scholarship at Monmouth, he had spent his summer traveling around Europe, getting incredibly out of shape for someone who is probably used to looking like a Greek God, and going to jail in Greece for running around his hostel in the nude.
(If you ask Robert his Athens story, he sums it up in four words: "Ouzo, ouzo, ouzo, jail.")
Robert is the bearded one not playing chess, in case your monitor is in black and white.
Once again, The Luck of the Traveler struck when I went to Széchenyi, because I met Robert, Suzie, Katherine and Sophie right as we all walked in the front door together. We only chilled for a few hours, but they taught me a lot: Don't run around naked in Athens; my vaunted British accent actually sucks; I should plan more and bring a bathing suit with me if I go to a Turkish bath; even foreigners know how awesome Austin, Tx. is; it is possible to wash your hair if you have dreads; the list goes on.
But Sophie taught me something especially important after we had said our apparent goodbyes, when I was sitting out on the front steps re-reading Balkan Ghosts: Don't leave my bag sitting next to me in broad daylight. She swooped down, a flash of blonde locks streaking across the corner of my screen, "nicked" my bag, and took off running.
I was ready to chase some Hungarian down; instead, I heard two girls laughing behind me, and I knew within 0.3 seconds that I had been the victim of a prank.
"You should take bettuh cair of youhr things," Sophie said, smiling, as she handed me back my bag that had my passport in it.
Sophie, don't worry, I have been -- my bag is firmly tucked between my feet as I sit in this outdoor cafe posting my story about you.
Oh, and just so you three girls know: Shrinkage does exist. Especially after sitting in 16 degree water. Texans are much bigger than that if they remember to bring their bathing suits to a Turkish bath.
Life is just BETTER when the weather is nice. Punto final.
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I met some British girls the other day at a Turkish bath here in Budapest, and they all went to get pedicures. I think I should have joined them, because my toes -- and feet in general -- are slooooowly beginning to turn into The Bob's. (Luckily for you, you can't see that in this shot at the musical fountain on Margaret Island).
When I say "musical," I mean it. They play classical music, its ebbs and flows perfectly synchronized with the thrusts of water shooting up from the fountain, until late at night (how late, I don't know, but I was there a few days ago at around 10, and it was going strong for all five of us there).
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
When they say you can't swim somewhere because it's too dirty, so you decide to kayak instead, all I've got to say is that you'd better be damn good, because tipping over = swimming in the Danube.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Buda side of Budapest is kind of like a Houstonian having a 713 area code over a 281, or having a 212 area code if you're from Manhattan. You're proud, damn proud, and you don't want there to be any confusion about where your roots lay.
"Where are you from?"
"Buda."
"Budapest?"
"No, I am from Buda."
"Okay, okay, jeez."
In this shot, I am sitting on a ledge in Buda. Got that? Buda.
------------------------------------------------------------------------- I met some British girls the other day at a Turkish bath here in Budapest, and they all went to get pedicures. I think I should have joined them, because my toes -- and feet in general -- are slooooowly beginning to turn into The Bob's. (Luckily for you, you can't see that in this shot at the musical fountain on Margaret Island).
When I say "musical," I mean it. They play classical music, its ebbs and flows perfectly synchronized with the thrusts of water shooting up from the fountain, until late at night (how late, I don't know, but I was there a few days ago at around 10, and it was going strong for all five of us there).
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
When they say you can't swim somewhere because it's too dirty, so you decide to kayak instead, all I've got to say is that you'd better be damn good, because tipping over = swimming in the Danube.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------The Buda side of Budapest is kind of like a Houstonian having a 713 area code over a 281, or having a 212 area code if you're from Manhattan. You're proud, damn proud, and you don't want there to be any confusion about where your roots lay.
"Where are you from?"
"Buda."
"Budapest?"
"No, I am from Buda."
"Okay, okay, jeez."
In this shot, I am sitting on a ledge in Buda. Got that? Buda.
For some reason, I am always drawn to taking pictures of graffiti, especially when it's covering buildings or statues that symbolize an older, purer time in a nation's history.
Is tagging your name all over places like these a sign of disrespect for the past, or is it one that tries to wake people up to the fact that the present is what really matters? In other words, is it disillusioned youth saying to the world, "Don't forget us; we are here; we aren't going anywhere..."?
It's ironic -- what the older generations view as a desecration of art and craftsmanship, many in the succeeding generations clearly see differently. To the kids I've seen all over Europe wearing Vans skate shoes, tying their matted hair into ponytails and listening to Western rock music, graffiti is art and craftmanship. Rather than showing disrespect to those who came before them, they're simply carrying the torch of their forefathers into a new age.
Is tagging your name all over places like these a sign of disrespect for the past, or is it one that tries to wake people up to the fact that the present is what really matters? In other words, is it disillusioned youth saying to the world, "Don't forget us; we are here; we aren't going anywhere..."?
It's ironic -- what the older generations view as a desecration of art and craftsmanship, many in the succeeding generations clearly see differently. To the kids I've seen all over Europe wearing Vans skate shoes, tying their matted hair into ponytails and listening to Western rock music, graffiti is art and craftmanship. Rather than showing disrespect to those who came before them, they're simply carrying the torch of their forefathers into a new age.
Budapest.
Every city deserves a second chance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They say you only remember the good things in life, but nothing that good seemed to happen when I first came here in October of 2004.
I was on a field trip with my Kent State Geneva Semester crew. It was cold; it was gray; it was rainy -- the entire time. The streets were dirty; the homeless people ubiquitous. As I walked down the sidewalk my first night, I saw a brawl outside of a bar, in which a dude smacked someone else's girlfriend in the face for complaining that he had just smacked her boyfriend in the face. After going inside the bar, I was charged about a thousand forints too much by a bi-otch waitress who knew I couldn't argue with the price she haughtily demanded in Hungarian, the red Astros hat on my head exclaiming to the entire world that yes, I was in fact a tourist. And the team for which I wore the hat as a good-luck charm, our first ever NLCS having just begun, wasn't helping matters -- thanks to another classic Dan Miceli performance, my last memory of Budapest was reading on espn.com about how we had blown an 8th-inning lead in Game 2 at Busch, putting ourselves in a 2-0 hole heading back to Houston.
As Coop, Will and I bought tickets to Prague at the Nyugati train station in the early hours of that cold, dark, dreary, Communist October morning, my mood was in an even bigger hole.
None of these things helped aid my impression of this place. From the moment I left for the happier skies and more welcoming energy of the Czech Republic, until I returned last week, my judgment of Budapest was unequivocal: It sucked.
Everyone to whom I told my opinion could not believe it. They had heard, or had experienced, nothing but good things in Budapest. But why, Bayless, why?
"I don't know ... it was just a vibe. You could just feel the Communist legacy there. It was so depressing."
Besides the Turkish bath I visited and the hat made of mushrooms I bought for Jamison, the only good thing I brought back with me from Budapest was a Russian matryoshka doll layered with U.S. presidents: Reagan, 41, Clinton, 43 and John Kerry.
"Either way -- Bush for four more or Kerry for a regime change -- this thing is gonna be great to have in my office when I'm older," I told my program director, who seemed to think it was the greatest souvenir he had ever seen in his life.
"Oh, I don't think there's any way the American people could re-elect George Bush, do you?" he asked rhetorically.
"Yeah, seriously, you're right, Dr. Reed. There is no way."
I changed my mind as it got closer to Election Day; JFK's chances seemed to be swiftly boating away. And call me a flip-flopper if you will, but I also changed my opinion on this city since my initial visit and that matryoshka doll.
I voted for staying away from Budapest before I voted against it.
What a difference a little sunshine, some chill bars where they charge you the correct amount for sörök, and a few native friends to teach you about Hungarian history can make.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Had I not met Mali -- a friend of Breck's cousin Leslie -- while in Voiron, FR a few weeks ago, I never would have come back here.
"So you want to travel to the East?" the 60-something, Wisconsin-bred Parisienne asked me. "I have some friends there about your age. I could put you in contact."
Which is how I met Kata, her twin brother István, Kata's aunt (who I still do not know what to call), her entire family, all her friends, etc. etc.
I've now been here for a week. Every day, I wake up late; I go to the kitchen to find two sandwiches -- usually grilled cheeses to be -- waiting for me on an unplugged Hungarian version of a George Foreman; I eat; I shower; I use Kata's computer to see what's happening in the world; I curse Brad Lidge; and then I go walk around the city, no particular destination in mind when I leave the apartment.
It's a great routine. I could do it for a month. There is so much to see here; so much to learn.
That's because of how rich Hungarian history is. We've been around since 1776. They've been around since 896. That's a big gap.
Take the 1956 Budapest Uprising. The 50th anniversary is coming up -- Oct. 23 will be a very emotional day on the same streets in which Soviet tanks obliterated any semblance of resistance with wanton cruelty. The symbol of "The Revolution" -- as Hungarians have taken to calling it since the change of regime in 1989 -- is the Hungarian flag, minus the Soviet-implemented coat of arms, which was cut out of the center by those fomenting unrest in the days of "Heartbreak Hotel," Mickey Mantle's monster summer and the Suez Crisis.
The Parliament building, situated on the east bank of the Danube, is one of the most magnificent buildings I have seen on my trip -- or ever. Built around the turn of the 20th century, it houses the Crown of St. István, the founder of the Christian Hungarian state. (I haven't played the Devil's Advocate and asked which three miracles he performed, because to blaspheme King István is the equivalent of talking about someone's mother in this country).
The crown, a revered object to Hungarians one and all, was taken by the U.S. for safe-keeping in the waning days of WWII, so as to protect it from the rapidly-advancing Soviet forces. Jimmy Carter returned it in 1978, and the symbol of the crown now makes up the coat of arms plastered across the modern Hungarian national flag.
(I still haven't seen the crown -- I didn't feel like waiting in a line of 40 camera-toting Japanese this morning to get inside and have a look).
"That's Hungary for you."
One of Kata's friends just laughed and shook her head when I informed her that, in the plaza directly across the street from the U.S. Embassy, there was a Soviet-era Red Star monument rising triumphantly into the sky. Thirty meters away, a statue of an American Army officer from WWI -- Harry Hill Bandholtz -- stands a little less triumphantly, tucked away in the corner.
The former Royal Castle of Buda, brilliantly illuminated at night in an almost golden hue, is quite a sight to behold when the sun nestles permanently below the horizon. I doubt the thousands of Jews massacred here during WWII -- Hungarian soldiers pushed them en masse into the Danube, allowing those who were not shot to meet their fate in the rushing water below -- had the same thoughts.
Whatever you do, though, make sure you come to this city when the weather is nice. Cold, gray, windy Communist skies may color your impression, otherwise -- and I wouldn't want for you to have to vote against Budapest before voting for it.
Every city deserves a second chance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They say you only remember the good things in life, but nothing that good seemed to happen when I first came here in October of 2004.
I was on a field trip with my Kent State Geneva Semester crew. It was cold; it was gray; it was rainy -- the entire time. The streets were dirty; the homeless people ubiquitous. As I walked down the sidewalk my first night, I saw a brawl outside of a bar, in which a dude smacked someone else's girlfriend in the face for complaining that he had just smacked her boyfriend in the face. After going inside the bar, I was charged about a thousand forints too much by a bi-otch waitress who knew I couldn't argue with the price she haughtily demanded in Hungarian, the red Astros hat on my head exclaiming to the entire world that yes, I was in fact a tourist. And the team for which I wore the hat as a good-luck charm, our first ever NLCS having just begun, wasn't helping matters -- thanks to another classic Dan Miceli performance, my last memory of Budapest was reading on espn.com about how we had blown an 8th-inning lead in Game 2 at Busch, putting ourselves in a 2-0 hole heading back to Houston.
As Coop, Will and I bought tickets to Prague at the Nyugati train station in the early hours of that cold, dark, dreary, Communist October morning, my mood was in an even bigger hole.
None of these things helped aid my impression of this place. From the moment I left for the happier skies and more welcoming energy of the Czech Republic, until I returned last week, my judgment of Budapest was unequivocal: It sucked.
Everyone to whom I told my opinion could not believe it. They had heard, or had experienced, nothing but good things in Budapest. But why, Bayless, why?
"I don't know ... it was just a vibe. You could just feel the Communist legacy there. It was so depressing."
Besides the Turkish bath I visited and the hat made of mushrooms I bought for Jamison, the only good thing I brought back with me from Budapest was a Russian matryoshka doll layered with U.S. presidents: Reagan, 41, Clinton, 43 and John Kerry.
"Either way -- Bush for four more or Kerry for a regime change -- this thing is gonna be great to have in my office when I'm older," I told my program director, who seemed to think it was the greatest souvenir he had ever seen in his life.
"Oh, I don't think there's any way the American people could re-elect George Bush, do you?" he asked rhetorically.
"Yeah, seriously, you're right, Dr. Reed. There is no way."
I changed my mind as it got closer to Election Day; JFK's chances seemed to be swiftly boating away. And call me a flip-flopper if you will, but I also changed my opinion on this city since my initial visit and that matryoshka doll.
I voted for staying away from Budapest before I voted against it.
What a difference a little sunshine, some chill bars where they charge you the correct amount for sörök, and a few native friends to teach you about Hungarian history can make.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Had I not met Mali -- a friend of Breck's cousin Leslie -- while in Voiron, FR a few weeks ago, I never would have come back here.
"So you want to travel to the East?" the 60-something, Wisconsin-bred Parisienne asked me. "I have some friends there about your age. I could put you in contact."
Which is how I met Kata, her twin brother István, Kata's aunt (who I still do not know what to call), her entire family, all her friends, etc. etc.
I've now been here for a week. Every day, I wake up late; I go to the kitchen to find two sandwiches -- usually grilled cheeses to be -- waiting for me on an unplugged Hungarian version of a George Foreman; I eat; I shower; I use Kata's computer to see what's happening in the world; I curse Brad Lidge; and then I go walk around the city, no particular destination in mind when I leave the apartment.
It's a great routine. I could do it for a month. There is so much to see here; so much to learn.
That's because of how rich Hungarian history is. We've been around since 1776. They've been around since 896. That's a big gap.
Take the 1956 Budapest Uprising. The 50th anniversary is coming up -- Oct. 23 will be a very emotional day on the same streets in which Soviet tanks obliterated any semblance of resistance with wanton cruelty. The symbol of "The Revolution" -- as Hungarians have taken to calling it since the change of regime in 1989 -- is the Hungarian flag, minus the Soviet-implemented coat of arms, which was cut out of the center by those fomenting unrest in the days of "Heartbreak Hotel," Mickey Mantle's monster summer and the Suez Crisis.
The Parliament building, situated on the east bank of the Danube, is one of the most magnificent buildings I have seen on my trip -- or ever. Built around the turn of the 20th century, it houses the Crown of St. István, the founder of the Christian Hungarian state. (I haven't played the Devil's Advocate and asked which three miracles he performed, because to blaspheme King István is the equivalent of talking about someone's mother in this country).
The crown, a revered object to Hungarians one and all, was taken by the U.S. for safe-keeping in the waning days of WWII, so as to protect it from the rapidly-advancing Soviet forces. Jimmy Carter returned it in 1978, and the symbol of the crown now makes up the coat of arms plastered across the modern Hungarian national flag.
(I still haven't seen the crown -- I didn't feel like waiting in a line of 40 camera-toting Japanese this morning to get inside and have a look).
"That's Hungary for you."
One of Kata's friends just laughed and shook her head when I informed her that, in the plaza directly across the street from the U.S. Embassy, there was a Soviet-era Red Star monument rising triumphantly into the sky. Thirty meters away, a statue of an American Army officer from WWI -- Harry Hill Bandholtz -- stands a little less triumphantly, tucked away in the corner.
The former Royal Castle of Buda, brilliantly illuminated at night in an almost golden hue, is quite a sight to behold when the sun nestles permanently below the horizon. I doubt the thousands of Jews massacred here during WWII -- Hungarian soldiers pushed them en masse into the Danube, allowing those who were not shot to meet their fate in the rushing water below -- had the same thoughts.
Whatever you do, though, make sure you come to this city when the weather is nice. Cold, gray, windy Communist skies may color your impression, otherwise -- and I wouldn't want for you to have to vote against Budapest before voting for it.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Classic Astros.
Our pitcher has to take a perfect game into the seventh so that our one hit, two runs, and malignant tumor with a hat known as Brad Lidge can secure the win. How we stay in every race, every year is beyond me.
Our pitcher has to take a perfect game into the seventh so that our one hit, two runs, and malignant tumor with a hat known as Brad Lidge can secure the win. How we stay in every race, every year is beyond me.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
"That says everything about your country," Attila yelled. "America is falling!"
Separated by a dark Szeged street and about five 26-year-olds all leaving Kata and István's birthday party, I could still make out the smile on his face. It assured me that his words were tongue-in-cheek; the "Haha ... seriously, though" type of statement that simultaneously ribs and states what one genuinely believes to be true.
I gave him the bird, because you know what Attila was referring to.
The extremely "civil" behavior in Iraq, right?
Wrong.
The painfully slow pace of reconstruction on the Gulf Coast, right?
Wrong.
The fact that our citizenry votes more often for American Idol than who they want as the next American president, right?
Wrong.
It was something way more important than that. Attila was talking about the fact that Team USA lost to Greece at the World Championships.
In basketball.
A sport we freaking invented.
Who would have ever thought Jerry Colangelo would have more responsibility for pulling our nation back from the brink of a Carter-era type malaise than anyone working inside the Beltway?
If we don't bring home gold from Beijing, history may judge such a cataclysmic failure as the lead that slowly poisoned the water supply of the American Empire.
Separated by a dark Szeged street and about five 26-year-olds all leaving Kata and István's birthday party, I could still make out the smile on his face. It assured me that his words were tongue-in-cheek; the "Haha ... seriously, though" type of statement that simultaneously ribs and states what one genuinely believes to be true.
I gave him the bird, because you know what Attila was referring to.
The extremely "civil" behavior in Iraq, right?
Wrong.
The painfully slow pace of reconstruction on the Gulf Coast, right?
Wrong.
The fact that our citizenry votes more often for American Idol than who they want as the next American president, right?
Wrong.
It was something way more important than that. Attila was talking about the fact that Team USA lost to Greece at the World Championships.
In basketball.
A sport we freaking invented.
Who would have ever thought Jerry Colangelo would have more responsibility for pulling our nation back from the brink of a Carter-era type malaise than anyone working inside the Beltway?
If we don't bring home gold from Beijing, history may judge such a cataclysmic failure as the lead that slowly poisoned the water supply of the American Empire.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Chase, I'm sorry, but Marion, Va. has got nothing on Szeged, Hungary.
"Did you know we invented Dr. Pepper?" Yes, I did know that -- you told me. Or was it "Did you know we invented Mountain Dew?" I can't remember. Either way, it's immaterial. Pepsi , Coke, Sprite, root beer and R.C. ... that Fab Five is probably enough to keep the world spinning on its axis for the next century at least.
But (sniffle) a world (sniffle, cough) without (a-choo!) Vitamin C? Now that (sniffle) would be (cough, sniffle) a tough (sniffle) pill to (a-choo! a-choo!) swallow.
Anyone living outside of Szeged -- a city in the south of Hungary, near the Romanian and Serbian borders -- has probably never heard of Albert Szent-Györgyi, the man who successfully isolated ascorbic acid (Vitamin C) from green pepper back in 1928. But Kata and her twin brother István sure have, and were damn proud to inform me of how important the Nobel Prize winner from their hometown of some 200,000 has been to the health of immune systems far and wide.
Speaking of Nobel Prize winners, Kata's friend Attila made sure I went home with this fact straightened out: Ain't nobody that's got more of them, per capita, than Hungary. And that's a fact, Jack.
One more thing, which is actually pretty bigtime if you asked me. Ever heard of the ballpoint pen? Hungary. Again.
We should all write thankyou letters to the Hungarian people as a whole. Kőszi, Magyar!
(But make sure you send one to the people of Marion, too -- I heard it gets lonely up in the Blue Ridge, especially during the winter. And since the nearest hospital is at least a day's ride from ole' Chase, make sure to include a few Vitamin C tablets before you lick the stamp. We don't want them to have to call the local doctor and ask him to bring the leeches if Charlie Bob gets a fever).
"Did you know we invented Dr. Pepper?" Yes, I did know that -- you told me. Or was it "Did you know we invented Mountain Dew?" I can't remember. Either way, it's immaterial. Pepsi , Coke, Sprite, root beer and R.C. ... that Fab Five is probably enough to keep the world spinning on its axis for the next century at least.
But (sniffle) a world (sniffle, cough) without (a-choo!) Vitamin C? Now that (sniffle) would be (cough, sniffle) a tough (sniffle) pill to (a-choo! a-choo!) swallow.
Anyone living outside of Szeged -- a city in the south of Hungary, near the Romanian and Serbian borders -- has probably never heard of Albert Szent-Györgyi, the man who successfully isolated ascorbic acid (Vitamin C) from green pepper back in 1928. But Kata and her twin brother István sure have, and were damn proud to inform me of how important the Nobel Prize winner from their hometown of some 200,000 has been to the health of immune systems far and wide.
Speaking of Nobel Prize winners, Kata's friend Attila made sure I went home with this fact straightened out: Ain't nobody that's got more of them, per capita, than Hungary. And that's a fact, Jack.
One more thing, which is actually pretty bigtime if you asked me. Ever heard of the ballpoint pen? Hungary. Again.
We should all write thankyou letters to the Hungarian people as a whole. Kőszi, Magyar!
(But make sure you send one to the people of Marion, too -- I heard it gets lonely up in the Blue Ridge, especially during the winter. And since the nearest hospital is at least a day's ride from ole' Chase, make sure to include a few Vitamin C tablets before you lick the stamp. We don't want them to have to call the local doctor and ask him to bring the leeches if Charlie Bob gets a fever).
Thursday, August 31, 2006
I am now in Budapest (which is way more fun to say in its correct pronunciation: Budapeshht).
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First observation: Do the gods of weather just know when they're residing on top of a former Eastern Bloc country? Is there some sort of meteorological explanation for the fact that Communist countries have gray skies at all times? This is my second time to this place ... never seen the sun. Same with Prague two years ago.
We'll see how long this can keep up.
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Second observation: I believe the phrase is, "I lucked out."
From Breck to his cousin Leslie to her friend Mali to her friend Kata -- Texas to New Orleans to Wisconsin to Paris to Szeged -- here I am in this apartment overlooking a Budapest street, counting my lucky stars that I was able to land such a sweet set-up with a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.
Twenty-six years old -- as of midnight last night -- and fresh into the business world ("I suggest you never stop traveling," my host said in frustration with her new life over beers last night), Kata has all the makings of someone that will be a very good friend of mine once I leave Hungary.
Her nice-ometer is off the charts. Apologizing profusely over email that she couldn't take a day off of work to come pick up a total stranger at the airport (even after she told me to come on Friday ... and I promptly booked an EasyJet flight for Wednesday); coming to meet me at the train station and apologizing some more for being, gasp, ten minutes late; taking me out last night with her friends to two of the sweetest bars I have ever been to; leaving me a note this morning when she left for work that told me to "eat whatever I want....use the computer, no password necessary....and take these (generic Advils) if you have a headache.... :)"
I don't know if someone told her or not, but these are all ways to get on my good side.
Then there's her good friend Atilla (yes, there are Hungarian people who still name their children after the infamous Hun).
"Oh, you listen to reggae music?" Kata asked. "Well I will call my friend; he likes that kind of music a lot, as well."
By a lot, Kata meant a hell of a lot.
Enough to the point of him knowing all the reggae DJ's in this town, and him taking us to one of their parties last night.
I don't know how on Jah's earth I keep meeting these people, but please, Lord, don't let it stop. Sitting under the open night sky at this outdoor bar, a reggae selecta spinning nothing but the best riddims, surrounded by unbelievably gorgeous Hungarian girls on all sides and having the best of conversations with Kata and Atilla until 2:30 in the morning.
I'd say that was a good start to my Hungarian adventure.
And oh, by the way. The birthday party I'm going to in the southern Hungarian town of Szeged -- the one in celebration of Kata and her twin brother's 26th -- is on a boat. Oh, man. Oh. Man.
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First observation: Do the gods of weather just know when they're residing on top of a former Eastern Bloc country? Is there some sort of meteorological explanation for the fact that Communist countries have gray skies at all times? This is my second time to this place ... never seen the sun. Same with Prague two years ago.
We'll see how long this can keep up.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Second observation: I believe the phrase is, "I lucked out."
From Breck to his cousin Leslie to her friend Mali to her friend Kata -- Texas to New Orleans to Wisconsin to Paris to Szeged -- here I am in this apartment overlooking a Budapest street, counting my lucky stars that I was able to land such a sweet set-up with a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.
Twenty-six years old -- as of midnight last night -- and fresh into the business world ("I suggest you never stop traveling," my host said in frustration with her new life over beers last night), Kata has all the makings of someone that will be a very good friend of mine once I leave Hungary.
Her nice-ometer is off the charts. Apologizing profusely over email that she couldn't take a day off of work to come pick up a total stranger at the airport (even after she told me to come on Friday ... and I promptly booked an EasyJet flight for Wednesday); coming to meet me at the train station and apologizing some more for being, gasp, ten minutes late; taking me out last night with her friends to two of the sweetest bars I have ever been to; leaving me a note this morning when she left for work that told me to "eat whatever I want....use the computer, no password necessary....and take these (generic Advils) if you have a headache.... :)"
I don't know if someone told her or not, but these are all ways to get on my good side.
Then there's her good friend Atilla (yes, there are Hungarian people who still name their children after the infamous Hun).
"Oh, you listen to reggae music?" Kata asked. "Well I will call my friend; he likes that kind of music a lot, as well."
By a lot, Kata meant a hell of a lot.
Enough to the point of him knowing all the reggae DJ's in this town, and him taking us to one of their parties last night.
I don't know how on Jah's earth I keep meeting these people, but please, Lord, don't let it stop. Sitting under the open night sky at this outdoor bar, a reggae selecta spinning nothing but the best riddims, surrounded by unbelievably gorgeous Hungarian girls on all sides and having the best of conversations with Kata and Atilla until 2:30 in the morning.
I'd say that was a good start to my Hungarian adventure.
And oh, by the way. The birthday party I'm going to in the southern Hungarian town of Szeged -- the one in celebration of Kata and her twin brother's 26th -- is on a boat. Oh, man. Oh. Man.
Even though the only people reading this are most likely already on "the list," by which I mean the dreaded "Read My Family's Columns Or Die" automated message system churned out by The Bob -- something that once you're on, there's no escape from -- I felt the need to direct everyone to my mother's most recent column.
Before you read it, be warned: She is disgusting. ("Primarily because I’ve learned to fake certain acts in the dark — like reading menus in restaurants with lighting so low it would freeze water. I usually just tell the waiter, “I’ll have that,” pointing to whatever"). Hey, Mom. You've got three kids. Therefore it is obvious you must have had sex at least three times (well, you were married once before, so four times). We don't need these vague references to coitus in a West University, family-oriented publication. If this was said on television, or the radio, Michael Powell would have been outraged.
"Long Tooth Birthday"
But despite that, this may be the funniest one I have read in a long time. Anthony Hopkins, post-stroke, hahhahahaah.... you'll see.
Before you read it, be warned: She is disgusting. ("Primarily because I’ve learned to fake certain acts in the dark — like reading menus in restaurants with lighting so low it would freeze water. I usually just tell the waiter, “I’ll have that,” pointing to whatever"). Hey, Mom. You've got three kids. Therefore it is obvious you must have had sex at least three times (well, you were married once before, so four times). We don't need these vague references to coitus in a West University, family-oriented publication. If this was said on television, or the radio, Michael Powell would have been outraged.
"Long Tooth Birthday"
But despite that, this may be the funniest one I have read in a long time. Anthony Hopkins, post-stroke, hahhahahaah.... you'll see.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
What are you doing this weekend?
Me? Oh, I'm doing pretty much the same, except for when I go to this birthday party in Szeged, Hungary -- a town I've never heard of near the Romanian and Serbian borders -- as the personal guest of the birthday girl, Kata.
Nah, I don't know Kata. Nor do I know her twin brother. But I did get to hang out with one of their friends in Voiron, France two weekends ago. That is about the extent of my connection to these siblings whose birthdays I am going to celebrate in grand fashion a few days from now.
I am finally leaving the home base in Switzerland, and though Bibi jokes, I know she will miss me.
Western Europe -- that portion of the trip is now officially over. Let the real stuff begin. I'm off to Budapest, where I will once again have a free place to stay, this time with someone I have never met.
Damn I am good.
Me? Oh, I'm doing pretty much the same, except for when I go to this birthday party in Szeged, Hungary -- a town I've never heard of near the Romanian and Serbian borders -- as the personal guest of the birthday girl, Kata.
Nah, I don't know Kata. Nor do I know her twin brother. But I did get to hang out with one of their friends in Voiron, France two weekends ago. That is about the extent of my connection to these siblings whose birthdays I am going to celebrate in grand fashion a few days from now.
I am finally leaving the home base in Switzerland, and though Bibi jokes, I know she will miss me.
Western Europe -- that portion of the trip is now officially over. Let the real stuff begin. I'm off to Budapest, where I will once again have a free place to stay, this time with someone I have never met.
Damn I am good.
Courmayeur.
See how it fades from white to gray in the middle there? That's where the glacier is, and where the glacier used to be.
But Al Gore is still just a liberal fear-mongerer -- a sore loser who just wants to make George Bush look bad, isn't he?
We need to follow nature's lead and take a serious look in the mirror, kind of like this mountain is doing. What kind planet are we going to leave for our children's children? Sure, economic growth is important, but I'd say other things count a little bit as well.
Never forget how small and insignificant we really are. We think we're all that; nature just laughs and keeps on keepin' on.
Even the economics major agrees, folks.
See how it fades from white to gray in the middle there? That's where the glacier is, and where the glacier used to be.
But Al Gore is still just a liberal fear-mongerer -- a sore loser who just wants to make George Bush look bad, isn't he?
We need to follow nature's lead and take a serious look in the mirror, kind of like this mountain is doing. What kind planet are we going to leave for our children's children? Sure, economic growth is important, but I'd say other things count a little bit as well.
Never forget how small and insignificant we really are. We think we're all that; nature just laughs and keeps on keepin' on.
Even the economics major agrees, folks.
Courmayeur, Italy.
The Italian Alps -- just like the Swiss Alps, or the French, or Austrian or Slovenian -- are pretty much amazing.
I took a little walk in them last Saturday, in the Aosta Valley. Today is Tuesday. My quads still hurt.
My new Barcelonan friend Javier, a distant cousin of Bibi's who has been staying at Chez Knapp all month while completing an internship Breck landed him at Heritage Bank's Geneva branch, is a great example of why it's important to surround yourself with the right kinds of people. Alone, I exercise as much as Howard Taft. When forced to get off my ass by active people, I am as mobile as a cell phone.
Sleeping in Javier's car, we awoke to quite a buena vista.
Through the sun roof, there was the Mont Blanc (or Monte Bianco, since we were viewing it from Italian territory), the highest peak in Europe at 4,808 m (15,774 ft.). On good days, you can get a more distant view of La Dame Blanche from Breck's back patio.
On good days.
But since the forecast throughout the country of Switzerland last weekend was rain, rain and more rain -- and Javier was itching like he had a colony of fire ants in his pants to get into "the mountains" -- he found the one spot in which sunshine was expected and bought a map to get ready: Western Italy was where we were headed as soon as the workweek was finished.
As soon as we got back from an afternoon chilling in Geneva, and despite the fact that I once again forgot to bring my passport when entering a foreign country (I swear, my mom must have dropped me on my head repeatedly as a child), we made it through without getting checked.
Which was a stroke of luck, indeed. Because this is what I'm talking about, baby. The Alps.
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Javier is a mountain man. There's no better description for him. The fact that he's doing a bank internship, and that he studies economics at his university in Barcelona, is more of a distraction to discovering the real Javier than it is a guide. ¿Economía? Try las montañas. That is Javier's real future -- if he wants to be happy with his life, at least.
Toots -- Breck and Bibi's 14-year-old daughter -- may make fun of him by constantly serenading him with a song she wrote especially for their Catalonian guest: "The mountains, the mountains, the mountains" (over and over and over). But I doubt the kid cares. Sometimes I think he secretly wishes he could find a wedding ring big enough to fit around one of those hunks of rock formed by the collision of the earth's plates. He is from the biggest party city in Spain, Barcelona, yet he flees to the Pyrenees every single weekend to seek refuge in the soft embrace of a hard rock -- Javier is the most avid rock climber I have ever met.
He even tried to take me to a little spot in Yverdon -- 25 minutes from Morges and Chez Knapp -- the day after we trekked all through the Aosta Valley. If my legs still hurt today (Tuesday), just take a guess at how they felt on Sunday. I had spent the day of rest resting. Javier had spent it beating Breck at his own game: His time in the Lausanne triatholon was four minutes faster than his boss at Heritage, who attends triatholons almost as often as Bibi attends Mass. Javier? Oh, it was his first time to try one.
So my surrogate hermano is smarter than me about money, better than me with languages, more athletic than I could ever dream of being ... AND he's a better photographer. I tried four times in a row to get a good shot of myself in front of this snow-capped mountain, and this was the best I could do.
But I totally know more about baseball.
The Italian Alps -- just like the Swiss Alps, or the French, or Austrian or Slovenian -- are pretty much amazing.
I took a little walk in them last Saturday, in the Aosta Valley. Today is Tuesday. My quads still hurt.
My new Barcelonan friend Javier, a distant cousin of Bibi's who has been staying at Chez Knapp all month while completing an internship Breck landed him at Heritage Bank's Geneva branch, is a great example of why it's important to surround yourself with the right kinds of people. Alone, I exercise as much as Howard Taft. When forced to get off my ass by active people, I am as mobile as a cell phone.
Sleeping in Javier's car, we awoke to quite a buena vista.
Through the sun roof, there was the Mont Blanc (or Monte Bianco, since we were viewing it from Italian territory), the highest peak in Europe at 4,808 m (15,774 ft.). On good days, you can get a more distant view of La Dame Blanche from Breck's back patio.
On good days.
But since the forecast throughout the country of Switzerland last weekend was rain, rain and more rain -- and Javier was itching like he had a colony of fire ants in his pants to get into "the mountains" -- he found the one spot in which sunshine was expected and bought a map to get ready: Western Italy was where we were headed as soon as the workweek was finished.
As soon as we got back from an afternoon chilling in Geneva, and despite the fact that I once again forgot to bring my passport when entering a foreign country (I swear, my mom must have dropped me on my head repeatedly as a child), we made it through without getting checked.
Which was a stroke of luck, indeed. Because this is what I'm talking about, baby. The Alps.
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Javier is a mountain man. There's no better description for him. The fact that he's doing a bank internship, and that he studies economics at his university in Barcelona, is more of a distraction to discovering the real Javier than it is a guide. ¿Economía? Try las montañas. That is Javier's real future -- if he wants to be happy with his life, at least.
Toots -- Breck and Bibi's 14-year-old daughter -- may make fun of him by constantly serenading him with a song she wrote especially for their Catalonian guest: "The mountains, the mountains, the mountains" (over and over and over). But I doubt the kid cares. Sometimes I think he secretly wishes he could find a wedding ring big enough to fit around one of those hunks of rock formed by the collision of the earth's plates. He is from the biggest party city in Spain, Barcelona, yet he flees to the Pyrenees every single weekend to seek refuge in the soft embrace of a hard rock -- Javier is the most avid rock climber I have ever met.
He even tried to take me to a little spot in Yverdon -- 25 minutes from Morges and Chez Knapp -- the day after we trekked all through the Aosta Valley. If my legs still hurt today (Tuesday), just take a guess at how they felt on Sunday. I had spent the day of rest resting. Javier had spent it beating Breck at his own game: His time in the Lausanne triatholon was four minutes faster than his boss at Heritage, who attends triatholons almost as often as Bibi attends Mass. Javier? Oh, it was his first time to try one.
So my surrogate hermano is smarter than me about money, better than me with languages, more athletic than I could ever dream of being ... AND he's a better photographer. I tried four times in a row to get a good shot of myself in front of this snow-capped mountain, and this was the best I could do.
But I totally know more about baseball.
No one had ever questioned it before last Friday. My dad is "The Bob." Mine. Not yours. Not anyone else's, either. Just the one and only. To have a definite article placed in front of your name, after all, requires a lot of intangibles -- the most important being a smartass wife to bestow it upon you -- and in terms of the Roberts I know, it's not even close.
Robert Strake Parsley is The Bob.
It's how he has been referred to in nearly 1,000 columns since my mother began to write, followed by her extremely good-looking son a few years later. The only reason we haven't patented the name yet is because we didn't think we needed to -- what were the odds that there was someone else out there who may lay claim to the same moniker?
The answer -- as I found out recently in Aosta, Italy -- is "better than you think."
Meet Javier.
Javier is from Barcelona. He is 22, just like me, but he is spending his summer waking up right when the alarm sounds, rather than hitting the snooze. Ever since I arrived back at the Knapps two weeks ago from Eindhoven, Javier has been my surrogate hermano in a family full of surrogate pères, mères, frères et sœurs.
Even though it may make as much sense as a kid named Bayless going by "Billy," Javier is also known as "The Bob."
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"Ooohh, where did you get that keychain?" The yellow piece of foam laying on the table had immediately caught my eye when Javier set it down.
"This? Oh, one time, when my friends and I were in Holland, I was driving, and all of the sudden, the police, he make me get out of the car and do a..." Javier began to blow into an imaginary object, asking for some help from the native English speaker.
"The breathalizer."
"Yes, the breatha-leye-zer," he continued. "But I had not been drinking, not at all, you see, and so I blew 0.00, nothing."
I waited in silence, fascinated to see how this story was going to lead into how Javier became The Bob.
"And because I blew nothing, the police officer, he said to come over to him, and he gave me this." He picked up the keychain before plopping it back down onto the table. "In Holland, apparently, 'The Bob' is the one who stays, and drink the most beer at the bar. 'The Bob' stays until the bar closes," Javier explained in his thick Cataluña accent. "And so the police officer, by giving me a keychain that said 'The Bob,' he was being ironic."
This was the first I had heard of all this. I took a few seconds to reflect, furrowing my brow as I continued to stare straight ahead at my friend on the opposite side of the booth.
"So..... what you're saying is, you are The Bob."
There was no hesitation; just time to form a smile.
"Yes. I am The Bob."
Of course, Javier didn't realize until I explained immediately thereafter the significance of what he had just said. He didn't know he was sitting across the table from the Son of The Bob. But once I filled him in, he refused to defer to his elders.
"We are both The Bob," he said, laughing.
Yeah, we shall see about that, Javier. If you leave your keys alone for just one second, that piece of foam is mine -- and it's getting shipped home to Texas, where it belongs.
Robert Strake Parsley is The Bob.
It's how he has been referred to in nearly 1,000 columns since my mother began to write, followed by her extremely good-looking son a few years later. The only reason we haven't patented the name yet is because we didn't think we needed to -- what were the odds that there was someone else out there who may lay claim to the same moniker?
The answer -- as I found out recently in Aosta, Italy -- is "better than you think."
Meet Javier.
Javier is from Barcelona. He is 22, just like me, but he is spending his summer waking up right when the alarm sounds, rather than hitting the snooze. Ever since I arrived back at the Knapps two weeks ago from Eindhoven, Javier has been my surrogate hermano in a family full of surrogate pères, mères, frères et sœurs.
Even though it may make as much sense as a kid named Bayless going by "Billy," Javier is also known as "The Bob."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Ooohh, where did you get that keychain?" The yellow piece of foam laying on the table had immediately caught my eye when Javier set it down.
"This? Oh, one time, when my friends and I were in Holland, I was driving, and all of the sudden, the police, he make me get out of the car and do a..." Javier began to blow into an imaginary object, asking for some help from the native English speaker.
"The breathalizer."
"Yes, the breatha-leye-zer," he continued. "But I had not been drinking, not at all, you see, and so I blew 0.00, nothing."
I waited in silence, fascinated to see how this story was going to lead into how Javier became The Bob.
"And because I blew nothing, the police officer, he said to come over to him, and he gave me this." He picked up the keychain before plopping it back down onto the table. "In Holland, apparently, 'The Bob' is the one who stays, and drink the most beer at the bar. 'The Bob' stays until the bar closes," Javier explained in his thick Cataluña accent. "And so the police officer, by giving me a keychain that said 'The Bob,' he was being ironic."
This was the first I had heard of all this. I took a few seconds to reflect, furrowing my brow as I continued to stare straight ahead at my friend on the opposite side of the booth.
"So..... what you're saying is, you are The Bob."
There was no hesitation; just time to form a smile.
"Yes. I am The Bob."
Of course, Javier didn't realize until I explained immediately thereafter the significance of what he had just said. He didn't know he was sitting across the table from the Son of The Bob. But once I filled him in, he refused to defer to his elders.
"We are both The Bob," he said, laughing.
Yeah, we shall see about that, Javier. If you leave your keys alone for just one second, that piece of foam is mine -- and it's getting shipped home to Texas, where it belongs.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Alpha Blondy & the Solar System.
And the End of Chapter 1.
Professor Finder's smile was incredulous; he had patiently absorbed my entire pitch, and was now leaning back in his office chair -- surrounded by books on Zionism and the fate of postwar European Jews -- as he pondered a response to such an unorthodox request. Reggae? Rastafari? Jerusalem? Behind the front of skepticism, I could see an inner core of intrigued amusement; that was all which was keeping him from rejecting my idea out of hand.
Old enough to have a thick beard full of gray streaks, yet still young and open-minded enough to even contemplate granting permission to an idea as far outside of the box as an uncoiled jack, I could tell my Jerusalem: From Antiquity to Present HIST 401 seminar instructor was teetering between "No way" and "Why the hell not?"
"So, Mr. Parsley, you think you can write a 30-page thesis on Jerusalem's role in reggae music and Rastafare-ee-uh-nism?" the consummate Jewish professor asked, pronouncing the last word almost solely through his nose. By his tone, I got the feeling that this true academic first wanted clarification that yes, he had heard me correctly.
"Pretty much, yeah," I said with faux assuredness -- in truth, I had no idea whether or not a few superficial links between "the music of the heart" and the City of David would materialize into anything worth reading.
And though he didn't admit it outright until months later, neither had Professor Finder.
He could tell how adamant I was about getting a chance to prove myself, and so after the obligatory warnings that I not take this lightly, that it was a serious academic paper we were supposed to be researching, and that if I discovered early on that it wasn't feasible, to make sure and find another topic ... he shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows and took a flier.
"I'll be very interested to see how this turns out."
And trust me, so was I.
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As I walked out of Randall Hall that morning in February 2005, into the cold Charlottesville air that pierced through a thick layer of unkempt hair covering my ears but was repelled by the black Bob Marley hoodie insulating my torso, I legitimately did not know if I would be able to pull this one off.
Mount Zion, "By the rivers of Babylon," Stars of David painted red, gold, black and green, the Conquering Lion of Judah that could supposedly break every chain, a band called Israel Vibration and some guy who loved to moan "Oooh, ohhhhhh, the Israelites" ... that was pretty much all the framework I had in mind for the massive undertaking which I had just talked my way into.
I gulped. Question marks swirled. The can-do spirit I took into Professor Finder's office suddenly began to devolve into one of Can-I-do? self-doubt.
"There better be something out there a little more concrete than what I've got so far," I thought to myself, so preoccupied with when's and where's and what's and how's that I had ceased to even hear the words coming forth from the little white headphones jammed into my ears.
Little did I know that my research would lead me to Alpha Blondy, and later, to the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL.
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"Let's see..." The cursor was developing quite a rhythm as it waited in the Google search bar for a little push to the right. "How about 'jerusalem reggae singers?'" Enter.
0.07 seconds later, I had the answer to my prayers.
"Alpha Blondy? I've heard of that guy before."
I started to read.
"Hmmm, a reggae singer from Côte D'Ivoire who has an album -- and a song -- called 'Jerusalem,'" I said aloud, plopped down in the turquoise, disco-era couch providing a modicum of comfort in my drafty, unheated room.
"Jackpot."
I remember the day we met clearly, as I do with all my love affairs. Immediately after the (very) fruitful Google search, my web browser was routed to Amazon.com, where I purchased a package deal of Jerusalem and Apartheid is Nazism, Alpha Blondy's signature album.
Those two discs were used and abused over the next few weeks -- the most fun I ever had doing my homework. Even a short jaunt over to Shady Grady to get beer wasn't possible unless I first grabbed one of them by the doughnut hole, ready to be eaten by the CD player in Jamison's late-model Explorer before being ejected less than two songs later. Politiqui, Sebe Allah Y'e, Come Back Jesus, Apartheid is Nazism, and of course...
"Jeeeeehhhrusaleeeeemm, here I am." A place where "you can see Christians, Jews and Muslims, living together and praying, 'Amen. Let's give thanks and praises.'" A place holy "from the Bible to the Quran. Revelation in Jerusalem. Shalom, Salamalekum."
And this is a reggae song, sung by a black dude with dreads?
As they say in Côte D'Ivoire, "Oui. Pourquoi pas?"
I came to find out, during the course of the research which lasted an entire semester, that this guy also had albums called Masada, Yitzhak Rabin and Elohim, which sure weren't words being taught in the French 105 class I was taking in addition to my Jerusalem seminar.
What eventually became my favorite Alpha Blondy tune is the title track from Masada. In it, the artist formerly known as Seydou Koné sanctifies the plateau by that name situated on the Dead Sea. In 73 C.E., Masada served as the final outpost of the Great Jewish Revolt -- a mass uprising that reached a flashpoint in 70 C.E. with the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, but came to its tragic, bloody conclusion when a group of Hebrews known as the Zealots committed mass suicide on top of the elevated fortification, in lieu of submitting to the Roman forces below.
When the Solar System band kicked into the opening chords of Masada at the Sundance, all the fatigue I had been feeling -- all the aches and pains and thirst and hunger -- it just disappeared. Happy to be alive is what I was; like Izzy Vibe would want, I gave thanks to Jah I was still around. And so, inspired by the words I was hearing, I made a promise to myself that, should I still make it to Israel on this trip, I would do my best to imitate Alpha Blondy: "I'm gonna sleep by the Dead Sea, and rise up with the birds from the hills, and clean up my sins, while the birds sing. I'm gonna walk up to the top, of the rock of sacrifice, cause I know now, that life ain't no dice. Yes I know now, that life is a sacrifice. I'm gonna witness Jah rising sun from Masada."
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The entire day -- from the bus driver in Utrecht who decided that he just didn't "feel" like picking me up at the 41 stop, to getting on the wrong train en route to Arnhem, to the locker fiasco, to meeting Max, and then Chris, to the great performances put on by Izzy Vibe, Don Carlos, Steel Pulse and finally Alpha Blondy himself -- all I could think about was this sense of closure I felt within me.
Though I knew I would be returning to the home base in Switzerland the next day, no longer with a Eurail Pass and without an exact plan as to what would come next, I knew that the first chapter of my journey was coming to a close there in Eindhoven. What was to come in Switzerland would be like that transitional page between acts in a Shakespeare play: A respite, a time to earmark the corner, get up and stretch your legs. Chapter 2, whenever it was to begin, would only come once I made it out of Western Europe, and into a part of the world in which I felt a lot less ... comfortable.
Once the sun began to set on that park in Eindhoven, and the sweltering August heat gave way to a cool, night breeze, the energy around me exuded a culmination of sorts. The day was finished, as were the nine weeks spent backpacking across Western Europe. As was the summer. As was the third and final European reggae festival I had been to since that magical night in Abenberg, when, alongside Hunter, Chase and Jamison, I finally saw Gentleman.
As I scanned the crowd through the fog of ganja smoke hovering in the air like the guest that just won't leave, I felt the culmination of years spent researching this music, and the Rastafarian faith that serves as its very foundation. Funny that a white, non-Rasta kid from Texas probably knew more about the meaning behind the music than any other baldhead for miles -- no matter how natty their "designer dreads" were, or how ubiquitous the image of Haile Selassie I throughout their wardrobes of red, green and gold.
It was then, during Alpha Blondy's final song, that our love affair came full circle. Alone on stage, with nothing but the voice given to him by Jah, he began to sing: Barouh Atat Adonai, Barouh Abba Yeroushalaim...
Jeeeerusaleeemmmm, here I am. Jeeeerusalemmmm, je t'aime.
The song that introduced me to Alpha Blondy -- the one that helped me get an A on a UVa thesis paper that blew away all expectations Professor Finder, and myself, ever had -- was the song he used to bid me adieu. Culmination, indeed. I don't know if the story could have a better ending.
But a culmination doesn't necessarily mean the end. As the sun sets, the moon rises. And then the sun, it comes up once again. Life goes on. And so, as college has ended, my life goes on -- and that doesn't mean I have to put on a tie and start listening to talk radio all of the sudden. I may soon temper the lifestyle that I have been living for the past four years, but I will never change the way in which I live my life.
And I will never, ever stop listening to reggae music.
And the End of Chapter 1.
Professor Finder's smile was incredulous; he had patiently absorbed my entire pitch, and was now leaning back in his office chair -- surrounded by books on Zionism and the fate of postwar European Jews -- as he pondered a response to such an unorthodox request. Reggae? Rastafari? Jerusalem? Behind the front of skepticism, I could see an inner core of intrigued amusement; that was all which was keeping him from rejecting my idea out of hand.
Old enough to have a thick beard full of gray streaks, yet still young and open-minded enough to even contemplate granting permission to an idea as far outside of the box as an uncoiled jack, I could tell my Jerusalem: From Antiquity to Present HIST 401 seminar instructor was teetering between "No way" and "Why the hell not?"
"So, Mr. Parsley, you think you can write a 30-page thesis on Jerusalem's role in reggae music and Rastafare-ee-uh-nism?" the consummate Jewish professor asked, pronouncing the last word almost solely through his nose. By his tone, I got the feeling that this true academic first wanted clarification that yes, he had heard me correctly.
"Pretty much, yeah," I said with faux assuredness -- in truth, I had no idea whether or not a few superficial links between "the music of the heart" and the City of David would materialize into anything worth reading.
And though he didn't admit it outright until months later, neither had Professor Finder.
He could tell how adamant I was about getting a chance to prove myself, and so after the obligatory warnings that I not take this lightly, that it was a serious academic paper we were supposed to be researching, and that if I discovered early on that it wasn't feasible, to make sure and find another topic ... he shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows and took a flier.
"I'll be very interested to see how this turns out."
And trust me, so was I.
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As I walked out of Randall Hall that morning in February 2005, into the cold Charlottesville air that pierced through a thick layer of unkempt hair covering my ears but was repelled by the black Bob Marley hoodie insulating my torso, I legitimately did not know if I would be able to pull this one off.
Mount Zion, "By the rivers of Babylon," Stars of David painted red, gold, black and green, the Conquering Lion of Judah that could supposedly break every chain, a band called Israel Vibration and some guy who loved to moan "Oooh, ohhhhhh, the Israelites" ... that was pretty much all the framework I had in mind for the massive undertaking which I had just talked my way into.
I gulped. Question marks swirled. The can-do spirit I took into Professor Finder's office suddenly began to devolve into one of Can-I-do? self-doubt.
"There better be something out there a little more concrete than what I've got so far," I thought to myself, so preoccupied with when's and where's and what's and how's that I had ceased to even hear the words coming forth from the little white headphones jammed into my ears.
Little did I know that my research would lead me to Alpha Blondy, and later, to the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL.
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"Let's see..." The cursor was developing quite a rhythm as it waited in the Google search bar for a little push to the right. "How about 'jerusalem reggae singers?'" Enter.
0.07 seconds later, I had the answer to my prayers.
"Alpha Blondy? I've heard of that guy before."
I started to read.
"Hmmm, a reggae singer from Côte D'Ivoire who has an album -- and a song -- called 'Jerusalem,'" I said aloud, plopped down in the turquoise, disco-era couch providing a modicum of comfort in my drafty, unheated room.
"Jackpot."
I remember the day we met clearly, as I do with all my love affairs. Immediately after the (very) fruitful Google search, my web browser was routed to Amazon.com, where I purchased a package deal of Jerusalem and Apartheid is Nazism, Alpha Blondy's signature album.
Those two discs were used and abused over the next few weeks -- the most fun I ever had doing my homework. Even a short jaunt over to Shady Grady to get beer wasn't possible unless I first grabbed one of them by the doughnut hole, ready to be eaten by the CD player in Jamison's late-model Explorer before being ejected less than two songs later. Politiqui, Sebe Allah Y'e, Come Back Jesus, Apartheid is Nazism, and of course...
"Jeeeeehhhrusaleeeeemm, here I am." A place where "you can see Christians, Jews and Muslims, living together and praying, 'Amen. Let's give thanks and praises.'" A place holy "from the Bible to the Quran. Revelation in Jerusalem. Shalom, Salamalekum."
And this is a reggae song, sung by a black dude with dreads?
As they say in Côte D'Ivoire, "Oui. Pourquoi pas?"
I came to find out, during the course of the research which lasted an entire semester, that this guy also had albums called Masada, Yitzhak Rabin and Elohim, which sure weren't words being taught in the French 105 class I was taking in addition to my Jerusalem seminar.
What eventually became my favorite Alpha Blondy tune is the title track from Masada. In it, the artist formerly known as Seydou Koné sanctifies the plateau by that name situated on the Dead Sea. In 73 C.E., Masada served as the final outpost of the Great Jewish Revolt -- a mass uprising that reached a flashpoint in 70 C.E. with the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, but came to its tragic, bloody conclusion when a group of Hebrews known as the Zealots committed mass suicide on top of the elevated fortification, in lieu of submitting to the Roman forces below.
When the Solar System band kicked into the opening chords of Masada at the Sundance, all the fatigue I had been feeling -- all the aches and pains and thirst and hunger -- it just disappeared. Happy to be alive is what I was; like Izzy Vibe would want, I gave thanks to Jah I was still around. And so, inspired by the words I was hearing, I made a promise to myself that, should I still make it to Israel on this trip, I would do my best to imitate Alpha Blondy: "I'm gonna sleep by the Dead Sea, and rise up with the birds from the hills, and clean up my sins, while the birds sing. I'm gonna walk up to the top, of the rock of sacrifice, cause I know now, that life ain't no dice. Yes I know now, that life is a sacrifice. I'm gonna witness Jah rising sun from Masada."
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The entire day -- from the bus driver in Utrecht who decided that he just didn't "feel" like picking me up at the 41 stop, to getting on the wrong train en route to Arnhem, to the locker fiasco, to meeting Max, and then Chris, to the great performances put on by Izzy Vibe, Don Carlos, Steel Pulse and finally Alpha Blondy himself -- all I could think about was this sense of closure I felt within me.
Though I knew I would be returning to the home base in Switzerland the next day, no longer with a Eurail Pass and without an exact plan as to what would come next, I knew that the first chapter of my journey was coming to a close there in Eindhoven. What was to come in Switzerland would be like that transitional page between acts in a Shakespeare play: A respite, a time to earmark the corner, get up and stretch your legs. Chapter 2, whenever it was to begin, would only come once I made it out of Western Europe, and into a part of the world in which I felt a lot less ... comfortable.
Once the sun began to set on that park in Eindhoven, and the sweltering August heat gave way to a cool, night breeze, the energy around me exuded a culmination of sorts. The day was finished, as were the nine weeks spent backpacking across Western Europe. As was the summer. As was the third and final European reggae festival I had been to since that magical night in Abenberg, when, alongside Hunter, Chase and Jamison, I finally saw Gentleman.
As I scanned the crowd through the fog of ganja smoke hovering in the air like the guest that just won't leave, I felt the culmination of years spent researching this music, and the Rastafarian faith that serves as its very foundation. Funny that a white, non-Rasta kid from Texas probably knew more about the meaning behind the music than any other baldhead for miles -- no matter how natty their "designer dreads" were, or how ubiquitous the image of Haile Selassie I throughout their wardrobes of red, green and gold.
It was then, during Alpha Blondy's final song, that our love affair came full circle. Alone on stage, with nothing but the voice given to him by Jah, he began to sing: Barouh Atat Adonai, Barouh Abba Yeroushalaim...
Jeeeerusaleeemmmm, here I am. Jeeeerusalemmmm, je t'aime.
The song that introduced me to Alpha Blondy -- the one that helped me get an A on a UVa thesis paper that blew away all expectations Professor Finder, and myself, ever had -- was the song he used to bid me adieu. Culmination, indeed. I don't know if the story could have a better ending.
But a culmination doesn't necessarily mean the end. As the sun sets, the moon rises. And then the sun, it comes up once again. Life goes on. And so, as college has ended, my life goes on -- and that doesn't mean I have to put on a tie and start listening to talk radio all of the sudden. I may soon temper the lifestyle that I have been living for the past four years, but I will never change the way in which I live my life.
And I will never, ever stop listening to reggae music.
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