My Long-Suffering Mother

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

My mother is very concerned about the photos I post of myself drinking beer after beer during my travels. Unfortunately for her, I have been especially busy these days exploring various night spots, a task which inevitably invites the associated consumption of alcoholic beverages. My last several pictures, taken on St. Patrick's Day and St. Patrick's Night are sure to upset her further. I torture my mother with every good night out.

The trip to Zagreb was spoiled by my boarding the right train but the wrong car in Gyékényes, Hungary; the cars split at one point and I was on my way to Budapest with a ticket saying "Zagreb." I spent an hour sitting at a train station in Balatonszentgyörgy, a town which, despite its sexy name, was dead. Three and a half hours after my expected arrival I made it to Zagreb.

Hostel Junis, first choice in the new Lonely Planet guide, exudes a hippie sort of cool, much as did the excellent Hostel Nap I had stayed at in Pécs. Unfortunately, it smelled like a locker room in my six bed dorm, which is not the fault of the staff so much as the luck of the draw. Due to a lack of room there tonight, I have now moved to the Nocturno Hostel which, based on my first impression, may be superior to the celebrated Hostel Junis, though it also costs $7 more a night.

I met a terrific young Californian named Darren at the hostel. He is a 23 year-old international studies student, table busser, and death metal DJ who is exploring many of the same countries I am. We started with drinks alongside the people-watching paradise that is Tkalčićeva utica. Then we headed to Sax! pub, which was hosting a St. Patrick's Day celebration with live music. Dismayed by the cover charge (about $6 US) and lack of activity in the early part of the evening, Darren and I decided to make that a miss. We passed time at a hip little cinema-themed cafe. Then, Darren proposed that we pick up beer at the supermarket and drink it on the street. I asked him, "What are the rules here with regards to open containers?" to which he replied, "It's ZAGREB!" and to which I replied, "One might say, 'It's SINGAPORE!' "

Still not clear about Zagreb's open-container laws, I opened our beers with the hostel's key anyway, and we strolled and sipped until Darren spotted a McDonald's. He wanted to drink the beers inside because it was too cold outside. I was reluctant, but agreed out of curiosity. As we entered I noticed people seated at their tables staring at us bemusedly—perhaps worriedly. We sat in front of a TV showing men's handball, followed later by a Barcelona/Stuttgart football match. Darren ordered and ate a cheeseburger in order to buy good-will from the McDonald's staff for our transgression.

When he disappeared for a bit, an older McDonald's manager came up to me and scolded me for the beer bottles. She marched them out of the restaurant in a huff. I rose from my chair and found Darren engaged in conversation with a Bible student at an internet station in the restaurant. At one point Darren seemed to get a bit effusive and, to my ear, nonsensical; the Croatian Bible student looked terribly confused. I made a snarky comment, which offended Darren greatly. In retrospect I realize there was no need for my remark, and I wish I had contained it. The remark, for the record, was, "Dude, I'm an American and an English major, and even I cannot follow what you are saying."

He was sore about that for a while, so after we hit the streets I proposed that we go back to the Sax! club and that I pay his cover. This cheered him up, and it cheered me up too, since I felt bad that I had hurt his feelings.

It was a terrific decision. Two excellent live bands played, the first serving up a pint of traditional Irish music, the second offering two pints of raucous Flogging Molly-type rock.

Two Finns from the hostel that Darren had invited showed up, and the four of us, who share a great fascination with foreign affairs, got into a fabulous discussion about the World. What more perfect thing to discuss over several beers, a pint of Guinness, and two Johnnie Walkers while seated with two Finns and an American in a Croatian bar on St. Patrick's Day?

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

Zagreb, Croatia: First Impressions

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

Spring is in the air. Hooded crows and rooks are constructing nests, flowers are blossoming, and chaffinches are in full song. This may explain the good mood of the natives here in Zagreb.

Zagreb might be the nicest city I have ever visited. Jane Austen had a good riff on the word "nice" in Northanger Abbey, which has resulted in my suffering a permanent aversion to that word, so let me expatiate.

Zagreb is not nicest in the sense of "the most beautiful" (although much of it is beautiful), nor is it nicest in terms of efficiency and modernity (although its tram system is superb), nor because of the climate (although the weather today is gorgeous).

Zagreb is the nicest city I have ever visited because everybody here is just really, really nice.

In Budapest, a woman at a cash register usually grunts as she hands you your receipt, but in Zagreb my efforts to speak a few lines of polite Croatian were always met with happy grins and commendation for my effort. In Budapest, a tourist is perceived by myriad con artists as a walking ATM machine, but in Zagreb people leave you alone (although they are happy to chat with you if you wish to start a conversation with them).

I discussed the Zagreb niceness thing with a Finn from the hostel last night. He had noticed the same.

We both feel that Hungarians are somewhat Ukrainian in habit. They seem instinctively suspicious of other people and are a bit guarded (though, like Ukrainians, they warm up after a few beers). The volume of cruel scams perpetrated on tourists in Budapest is an echo of the exploitation of visitors to Kiev. Violent, racist youth gangs are present in both countries.

But in Zagreb cheeriness is omnipresent. The only police officer I have seen strolled down Tkalčićeva ulica bantering blithely with a pedestrian. You hear laughter everywhere. Old men chatter away with one another on the tram. There is a pinch of Italian extroversion in the Croatian mindset which flavors the Balkan temperament.

The Finn and I agreed that Croatia should certainly be a member of the European Union. It isn't, because EU member Slovenia has repeatedly blocked Croatia's accession over a long-running border dispute between the two countries (the collapse of Yugoslavia led to a variety of catastrophes regarding borders and displaced people which has shaken the region for decades, now).

It's a pity. But for now, Croatia retains a certain hipness for travelers who wish to brag of adventures in Europe outside of the EU.

(My Finnish friend also said that, with regard to attitude and values, Croatia deserves EU membership more than Hungary ever did, and that Italy ought to be kicked out of the EU due to extensive corruption and organized crime. Proud Hungarians and Italians, feel free to fight in the comments area here.)

Zagreb is a small city; you can explore most of it in a day. The crown jewel is Tkalčićeva ulica, a pedestrian-only street lined with coffee shops and bars with tons of comfortable chairs to lounge on outside. It's fabulous for people-watching any time of day or night. To stroll down that street is to feel like a star. I suspect that is where I will park myself most of today and much of tomorrow as well.

Outwit, Outplay, Outlast

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

Last to bed and first one up, that's me.

Pécs, Hungary is a 2010 European Capital of Culture. By consequence, the city is undergoing massive renovation. Every pretty church faces a torn-up plaza and tall, chain-link fences. The city is still charming. It's so small that cab drivers must hate it here (this might explain why, when I arrived at the train station yesterday, I found no taxis waiting outside). It boasts an impressively high number of cafes and bars.

Pécs sees a lot of tourism from Hungarians themselves. Many of the folks in my hostel are Hungarians. Some Hungarian backpackers can be identified by their red, white, and green cockades, which they are wearing today for Revolution Day (I had seen people wearing these for several days in Budapest as well; Hungarians seem to be very patriotic).

I finally fell victim to a scam at the Budapest train station. It had to happen eventually; in no other city have I been so aggressively targeted. Here's how it went down. A guy pretending (in 20/20 hindsight) to be a train employee, and who addressed me immediately in English (always a tip-off), hoisted my luggage up onto the overhead racks of a train compartment. Then he asked for money. Well fuck me, I didn't ask for help. I fished out a 200 forint coin, worth about $1, although I thought his service was worth less. "No silver," he said. "Only paper." I was stupid. I figured I would give him a 500 forint note, which is the smallest paper note. However, 1000 was the smallest note I had (worth $5). I asked for 500 in change. He told me 1000 was just fine. So instead of doing the right thing and finding a real train employee, I handed him the money. Off he went.

Then I realized he had put me on the wrong car. He never checked my ticket for my seat assignment. Obviously, to run a scam like that, you just have to move the person onto a train as fast as humanly possible, hit him or her for the money, and run like hell. So, after paying him $5 I had to move my luggage to the correct car. Talk about adding insult to injury.

I wondered if Pécs was going to be another city of cons. It is not. Pécs is a city of drunks and homeless guys. Old men sit on benches in front of the theater shouting slurred things at the many tourists passing by. Homeless guys rifle through trash bins. I think there is a higher percentage of drunks and homeless guys to "regular" people in Pécs than in any other city I have visited.

I arrived at the Nap Hostel yesterday and was placed in a room with, in the words of the proprietor, "four boys who drink a lot." The boys were out, presumably drinking. I dropped stuff off, headed out, found a wi-fi cafe, and did a little work.

Then I decided to do a little drinking of my own. I had heard great things about the Hungarian wine. I found a nice bar and ordered a glass of Villany Cabernet Sauvignon, (a brand specifically recommended in the Lonely Planet guide) for 550 forints; the con man on the train could purchase almost two glasses on my 1000 forints. It was excellent, evaporating in my mouth with each sip. The words "ESTONIA WORLDCHART EXPRESS" scrolled repeatedly on the corner of MTV on a high-def TV screen. A football match followed. Moment of travel bliss: sipping that wine, watching Barcelona score a goal against Valencia on the telly, and Yes's "Leave It" playing in the background.

When I returned to the hostel I found the "boys" there, college-aged Hungarian guys, two playing chess, one observing chess, one passed out on the bed. Berlioz's "Symphony Fantastique," played on a radio they had brought. At the conclusion of the chess game the three conscious ones left; they took their tallboys with them. The unconscious one awoke later to the sound of his cell phone. He left the hostel some time afterward to catch up with his friends.

The proprietor of the hostel, a guy with a long pony tail and carefully-tended facial hair, kindly informed me of a party at the Kino Cafe. So I went, since I presumed the four Hungarian lads were going to be out late themselves anyway. When I arrived I took a seat by myself and enjoyed some very good turntablism. Early part of the night featured perfectly blended trip-hop beats, a bit Fatboy Slimmish.

I was approached by an eccentric, skinny old man with a beard. Of course, after the headaches of Budapest, I wondered if his talking to me was going to be a prelude to another scam. But somehow he convinced me to follow him to a corner of the club where a trio of guys were seated. Warily, I joined them.

A few minutes later, as one of the guys approached with a tray of beers, I thought back to scams involving drugging the drinks of tourists. But then the guy started dancing with the tray, and then he stumbled, and then a full cup of beer spilled all over the table and floor. That's when I knew these guys were all right.

We ditched Kino Club when it was actually getting good, as people were now actually on the dancefloor. But Ingwie, with whom I chatted the most that night, recommended a heavy metal club called Toxic, and I have a fondness for metal clubs.

Metal kids are, generally-speaking, the best kids on earth. I had at least a dozen wonderful conversations there, including one with a former nationally-ranked table football player. I wrote a few entries ago about the best table football player I'd seen, a young woman in Budapest. This guy would demolish her.

At 4 AM I headed back to the hostel. I had had the foresight to bring a flashlight with me; thanks to that I was able to weave through two dark rooms of sleeping people with minimal disruption. I found the four Hungarian lads in my room fast asleep. I had outlasted them. I had outplayed them. OK, I was outwitted by the Budapest "train employee," but all in all not a bad night's work.

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

Conversation With a Bartender in Pécs, Hungary

Me: "Any good live music in any of the bars here tonight?"

Bartender: "Ah, no."

Me: "Tomorrow is Hungary's big national holiday. Anything going on in town tomorrow to celebrate that?"

Bartender: "Not really."

Friday Night in Budapest

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

Friday night proper began at a hole-in-the-wall, rock 'n' roll brick cellar pub called Kőkorsó, the sort of place where I feel most comfortable. It was quite small. Three forms of entertainment intersected there: 1) table football, 2) singing along to Red Hot Chili Peppers songs strummed on a guitar somebody had brought in, and 3) drinking. The bar was frequented mostly by students, though there were a couple of old guys wandering around (a glimpse into my own future—that is, if I live to be that old), one of whom took over guitar-strumming duties at the end of the night accompanied by a chorus of rosy-faced drunk kids.

The table football action was furious. One young woman there was the best table football player I've ever seen (though I haven't exactly studied the sport). She always played offense. Before taking a shot she toyed with the ball a little in order to line it up perfectly. Sometimes she rapped the side of the table gently with her palm in order to shake the ball into precisely the right position. This was usually followed by a quick tap of the ball to one side (no doubt to get around the defender) followed by a thunderous WACK! The ball moved so fast that the shot was invisible to the human eye; only the sound of the ball rolling around inside the table indicated its successful transit to the back of the net.

Nonetheless, I managed to beat her and her teammate twice. Perhaps she let me win.

I got into a great conversation with two students there; only got the name of one of them, Gergo, a typically tall Hungarian fellow. At last I got to ask questions about Hungary and being Hungarian. Gergo and his friend, a blond college girl, made music recommendations. They even produced a list of folk artists I should check out. They raved about a great summer music festival on Lake Balaton; I would love to check this out, especially as it has a heavy emphasis on electronic music.

They acknowledged that the Hungarian pop music scene is not that developed, something I had thought might be the case after studying their music charts for a year or two (though I am fond of Zséda's "És megindul a föld").

Gergo's friend recommended a sort of cider-like drink that had a wine-like quality to it; the result was served in a pint glass and looked and tasted like a berry cider. They could not explain to me what this was in English (maybe half cider, half white wine?), so I must leave things this vague. In any case it was tasty, but all sweet drinks invite disaster later, so I am glad the bar ran out of the stuff, forcing me to switch to four or five beers instead.

The three of us headed to a disco bar across from the Nyugati Train Station. The DJ stuck to a party theme. Songs played included:

ABBA - Dancing Queen
Bryan Adams - Summer of 69
The Doors - Break on Through (to the Other Side)
Joan Jett and the Blackhearts - I Love Rock and Roll
John Paul Young - Love is in the Air (I love this little-known [in America] song and was surprised to hear it there)
Katrina and the Waves - Walking on Sunshine

Gergo's friend, who earlier had warned us of the dangers of switching from wine to beer (before she indulged in wine followed by beer), ran off to get some McDonald's food to absorb some of the alcohol. After a while it was clear she had vanished. A concerned Gergo checked up on her via his cell phone and found out she was safe with her friends, who were keeping a watchful eye over her while she threw up on the streets of Budapest.

With Gergo's help I found my way back to the hostel. And that was my Friday night in Budapest.

Saturday I spent half the day recovering, though I did manage to check out the charming Ethnographic Museum.

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

Romanian Basketball

I wanted to write an article about American basketball players in Romania, but my potential interview subjects apparently became shy and failed to return my SMSs and emails when I returned to Cluj Napoca specifically to interview them. That's OK; I enjoyed myself in Cluj anyway. The weather was sunnier and "springier" than it had been during my last visit with Cristina, and my past experience there allowed me to waste no time locating the best places for a coffee or a beer. But it was also a bit of a drag being on my own, and no reporter enjoys being jilted.

In lieu of what would have been a wonderful article, I will state more vaguely in this blog that many Americans are playing basketball in Romania. A woman basketball player from Iasi estimated that there are about five American men on each city team in Romania (there are 16 Division A teams in the country). The pay is quite good. Basketball is held in high regard in Romania, and teams that make money tend to spend it luring Americans to play for them.

Romanian basketball could be viewed as a sort of minor league baseball experience. Some players hone their skills before returning to America to play in the NBA; others not of that caliber enjoy a comfortable living playing the sport in Europe.

A former Romanian-born Cluj Napoca player, Gheorghe Mureşan, enjoyed success as a basketball player in the NBA in the United States. He is tied with one other player as being the tallest man to play in the NBA, but that gift of height also contributed to some serious medical issues which required surgery to address.

Today, Mureşan is retired from the NBA. Now he appears in a frequently-run Romanian television ad for Vodafone in which he performs a karaoke version of a Crazy Loop song before Dan Bălan, the Crazy Looper himself, arrives on the scene to help him out (video below).



Since I was unable to write this article, I toss out the idea of writing about American basketball players in Eastern Europe to any other would-be reporters who wish to tackle it. Odds are that if you are from a major city, there is somebody from that city playing basketball in an unlikely European country (like Romania). It could make for a good local newspaper feature--if you can get the player to return your messages after you arrive to interview them. :-P

Dating Budapest

From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia

Sometimes you don't click on the first date. When that happens there is usually not a second date. After my first full day in Budapest I felt ready to give up and move on to a smaller city. I felt lonely and lost. I had been targeted by scam artists. And to compound my unhappiness, yesterday morning I realized that I had shampooed with conditioner, which is the sort of thing that happens when you go shopping for supplies in a country where you don't speak the language. But I kept telling myself that I must not have given the city a fair chance. Everyone talks glowingly about Budapest, so what's wrong with me?

I have found the magic. Last night I stopped by a cool movie-themed bar full of hipster, artist types, and so finally I enjoyed a couple half liters of Budapest beer. The women con artists I wrote about are still working their poison in the shopping district (two different pairs tried ensnaring me as I walked through last night; or maybe I am just irresistible to female duos in that particular part of town), but get just a few blocks away from that tourist trap and you find the awesome Budapest your friends told you about, the one you read about in the travel section of the New York Times, the one Lonely Planet claimed was, "More cosmopolitan than Prague, more romantic than Warsaw and more beautiful than both."

To literally top it off, the city is being blanketed with beautiful snow. The flakes fall outside the window of Caffe Break Kft., a cozy wi-fi enabled joint with 1960s newspaper pages pasted on its walls. A CD of acoustic versions of current pop hits plays in the background.

I sometimes gaze at a city's celebrated architecture and say, "So what?" It's the people that make a place great, not the pretty bridges. A small town like Timisoara, Romania may not be gorgeous, but it is very friendly; a more glamorous city can be beautiful but emotionally cold. Where would you rather be?

But now I see the appeal of a gorgeous city. As I gazed at the Parliament building from halfway across the Chain Bridge today I felt as if I were walking past an earth-sized version of a Whistler landscape. A beautiful city inspires you. It puts an extra spring in your step as you explore it. This translates to a more positive frame of mind. Soon you're ready to write a novel, or at least tidy up a freelance article and scribble a travel blog entry.

Three dates with a person in order to decide whether you are compatible with that individual is probably two too many, but on my third full day in Budapest I feel like the city and I are finally clicking. I even found shampoo.