Whitney Almost Spends The Rest Of Her Life In Hungarian Prison

To clear up any worries, the title of this blog post includes the word "Almost."  I am not, in fact, typing this blog entry from a dirty Hungarian prison cell that I share with a toothless drug dealer named Angyalka.  Thank goodness.  But it was a close call.

(And lest you think the following episode made me dislike Hungary, it's just not true.  I had a lovely time, and we looked at castles and parks and statues and giant sand timers, and we ate bread and cheese and apples and played with dogs and fell asleep in the park.  It was truly fantastic.  My camera battery also died, but I took twelve pictures!)

Baaaaasically, here's the story.  We spent the weekend in Budapest and were getting ready to schlep ourselves to the train station to go back to Vienna on Sunday night, but our 24-hour transportation passes had expired about an hour earlier.  So we found the nearest ticket machine, bought one-way tickets, and took the subway to the train station.  We were kind of surprised that no one checked our tickets before we got on the train (there's usually someone at the entrance to the subway station), but we didn't think much of it.  

Before I continue, let me tell you a little something about the subway stations.  They are really, really, really low underground (the Hungarians being understandably paranoid about nuclear bomb attacks when they were building them), so the escalators have to be really long.  They are also incredibly steep and incredibly fast-- riding them is slightly terrifying.  I am always scared that I am going to misstep on the first step and tumble all the way down to the bottom, or fall backwards from the top and cause a domino-effect disaster of epic proportions.  Only adding to the sense of vertigo is the posters, which are posted sideways on the wall.  Plus, the escalators are brown, loud, and smell like Communism.  

So imagine my surprise when I found out that, after this terrifying escalator ride, there were still trials left to endure.  Turns out, the clever little Hungarians like to issue surprise attacks at the top of the escalators.  When we finally got to the top of the massive beast, there was a line of about four Official Train Ticket Checker People doing what they do best.  I, naturally, showed my (completely legitimate, purchased, and non-expired) ticket to one such Checker Person and went on my merry way.  Well, I tried to go on my merry way.  

"Honknknfnyz!" he said in his scariest Hungarian accent, frowning and holding out his hand in the international sign for "STOP OR I WILL THROW YOU TO THE GROUND."  "Prhhynnra!  Oxnyghyh fihkl marhphhrwek."  

"Um," I responded.

"Kzkzkkzkzsszzskks!  Kduiuhfhkfkllk flkjrij pqowjjjrij, fljyzyloffhhf qoppkplk marhhhfrphwlk!" he growled.

There are simply not enough vowels in the Hungarian language.  "English?" I whimpered.  

"YOUR TICKET MUST HAVE VALIDATION WITH VALIDATION MACHINE!" he barked.

"Oh, I'm really sorry, I wasn't aware," I said.  "I just bought this, though."

He was obviously sympathetic to my excuse.  "IN ENGLISH AND HUNGARIAN THE DIRECTIONS ARE CLEARLY MARKED!" (Editor's Comment: Not true.)

"We must have not seen the validation machines," I said.  "I'm sorry."  

"IN ENGLISH AND HUNGARIAN THE DIRECTIONS ARE CLEARLY MARKED.  FINE OF SIX THOUSAND FORINTS!"  (This actually sounds a lot more hardcore and expensive than it really is.  6000 Ft is like 20 Euros.  But still!)

"Well, can I--"

"ENGLISH AND HUNGARIAN. CLEARLY. MARKED.  SIX THOUSAND FORINTS."

I was obviously pretty close to arguing my way out of this one.  Seriously, though, I tried everything.  I made puppy eyes.  I showed him our 24-hour pass.  I made my lower lip tremble.  I showed him the date and time of purchase of our most recent ticket.  I blinked rapidly.  I told him we were about to leave his godforsaken country and he should just let us go in peace.  I apologized multiple times.  I sighed sadly.  I finally told him that I had just exchanged all of my Hungarian money for Euros and I simply couldn't pay him.

Hungarian Official Train Ticket Checker People, conveniently, take Euros.  

Just in case you guys want a picture of my Potdijelismerveny (no, really):

I'm Addicted to Krak-ow (and Bad at Naming Blog Posts, Sorry)

So!  How about the last leg of our Spring Break adventure?  

Let me just tell you something about Krakow.  There are Catholics, Catholics,  E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E.  Everywhere!  I mean, I guess if your city produces one of the greatest popes the world has ever seen, you might be tempted to join the club, too.   

On Saturday night, we wandered around the city center and probably came across ten different churches within a few blocks of each other.  The coolest part, though, is that they were positively bursting with people there to celebrate the Easter Vigil.  We stopped and watched a few different congregations as they lit the Paschal candle outside and processed back into their churches.

But if we thought that Saturday night was super-Catholic... well, we just didn't know what was in store on Easter.  First we woke up bright and early to attend morning Mass at the cathedral where John Paul II had been bishop before becoming Pope.  

Then back to the roots... we spent part of the afternoon wandering around the Jewish quarter and visiting one of the old Jewish cemeteries.

And finally, when we thought that nothing more beautiful or magical could happen... well.  We were proven wrong in the most wonderful way possible.  

As we strolled around a little park, we heard music and naturally gravitated towards it.  We finally found ourselves in a little church courtyard full of darling Polish families dancing and singing along with a band.  Imagine my excitement when I saw two really cute nuns dancing with a little girl!  But as we ventured closer to the band, I realized that this was even better than I could have imagined.  The sweet rock band on a platform in the middle of this courtyard-- complete with electric guitars, rockin' bongos, a hardcore drummer, and a recorder player, for heaven's sake-- was completely composed of monks.  Monks!  They were so cool.  

We naturally stayed for the rest of the afternoon, occasionally dancing or singing along (but only when the words were something like "la la la" and not "oxnnjjjaoeoejj Polish crazy talk fjdfjdfdfjjjjjjjx") (I truly do not understand that language).  The music only got better and better, and more and more priests and nuns and cute babies arrived every minute.  Everyone was so joyful and smiley and it was just the very best way to celebrate Easter. 

Wish you were there?  Well, you're in luck.  Because there is no way I could have left without capturing the party of the century on video:

Do you see why I never wanted to leave?  And this is not to mention the deeeelicious food,

really cute Old Town and Easter market,

pink beer (raspberry???),

and loveliest views EVER (more lovely pictures here).

Hallelujah!  

Auschwitz

Our first day in Poland we went to Auschwitz, which is about an hour away from Krakow.  Wow.  Wow.  I am so surrounded every day by recreations and exhibits and virtual reality that it was (and kind of still is) almost impossible to wrap my mind around the fact that we were seeing, touching, experiencing the real thing.  It seems ludicrous that real people were ever there.  It seems ridiculous to suggest that something like the Holocaust could happen just barely over half a century ago.  

Here's the infamous "Arbeit Macht Frei" gate ("Work brings freedom"):

We walked under this gate as we began our tour of Auschwitz I, which was the original camp and administrative offices.  It was at first a prison camp for "dangerous" Polish citizens like intellectuals and members of the resistance, and later for Soviet prisoners of war and German criminals.  In between two barracks is the remains of an execution wall that was used for individual executions for these prisoners:

Auschwitz I is actually a lot smaller than I was expecting: it's made up of fewer than twenty barracks.  Most of the barracks in this camp have been converted into exhibits.  

Inside, case after case is filled with remains of the lives of prisoners of the camps: mounds of suitcases that Jews were told to take with them to start their new lives; piles of pots and pans, baby clothes, family heirlooms, eyeglasses, hair, shoes.  

It was hard to believe.  And it's even harder to try to explain later, and especially difficult to try to convey on a blog.  I can't explain what it was like to walk through the barrack hallways or walk down the stairs into the basement where the first gassings occurred or look at drawings that prisoners had scratched into the walls of the starvation cell.  

After touring through the exhibits, we headed to Auschwitz II, also known as Birkenau.  This camp was constructed a few years after the first one to make more room for the people that began to pour in from the Jewish ghettos.  Birkenau was the main extermination camp and the site of over a million deaths during the war.  It got its name from the birch trees that surround the camp:

There were a few barracks remaining, but most of them were wooden and had been torn down.  The only thing that remained on the miles and miles of land were red brick chimneys rising up absurdly from the hints of each foundation.  We walked alongside the railroad tracks where convoys of people arrived every day:

We stood on the platform where the selection process occurred-- prisoners who were deemed fit to work to the right, and everyone else (almost three-fourths of every convoy) to the left: mothers and their children, the elderly, the sick, and anyone else who the SS doctors thought was unfit.  Then we walked down the "road of death" toward the gas chambers and crematoriums.  

The gas chambers at Birkenau were disguised to be shower facilities, so the prisoners were told that they were undergoing a "disinfection" process.  The ones in this camp had been much bigger than those at Auschwitz I-- more than 20,000 people could be gassed and cremated every day.  They aren't standing anymore because, in an attempt to hide their crimes, the Nazis blew them up when the Soviet Army was advancing.  Here's all that's left:

After the gas chamber, we walked all the way across the huge grounds and went through one of the still-standing buildings, the children's barracks.  

Then... we got back on our minibus and went back to real life.  And that was probably the weirdest part of all.  Nobody really knew what to do or say afterwards.  There was no "but-at-least-we-learned-from-it" pep talk from our tour guide; no memorial gardens or pictures of survivors.  Instead, we were left remembering the words on a series of plaques in every language that was spoken at the camps.  Each one read:

"For ever let this place be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity, where the Nazis murdered about one and a half million men, women, and children, mainly Jews from various countries of Europe."  

Which it was.  The end.  I guess I don't know what else to say about it or how to end this post poetically.

(more photos)

The Ether Bunny

So after the wonderful adventure in Rome, Mike came back to Vienna with me, where dear Emily was waiting for us.  We had the most lovely spring break week juggling and looking at Important Buildings and enjoying the weather and eating kebabs.  Mmmmm!  (Pictoral Evidence for Various Blog-Reading Moms here)

On Thursday night, the three of us plus Nikki hopped on a bus to Prague.  We spent all of Friday there, exploring and drinking Pilsners and getting sucked into tourist traps.  We also spent a significant amount of time trying to get a good jumping picture in front of the John Lennon wall.  Sigh... 

Guess we all know who's the weakest link.  Anyway, Prague was pretty darn cool (and here are a few pictures to prove it).  We walked across Charles Bridge, juggled in front of Wenceslas Square, and so on.  Unfortunately, since we were only there for the day, we had to nix the pilgrimage to the Prague Metronome, a giant metronome overlooking the city.  A giant, functional metronome.  Don't worry, Prague.  I'm coming back!

Later Friday night, we took the night train to Krakow.  Funny story about the Prague-to-Krakow night train: it's pretty sketchy.  As in, a "Best Places to Lose Your Valuables" list includes this very train among its top 6 sketchiest places.  A few travel forums offer helpful tips like keeping the window cracked so that you don't get gassed (!!!) and pillaged by notorious train robbers.  Others suggest fashioning complicated MacGyver-style anti-lock-picking devices to keep the train conductor (who is almost certainly in cahoots with the thieves and being bribed to betray his passengers) from opening your door while you sleep.  

Despite not knowing whether or not we would wake up in the morning (and with or without our moneybelts), I think it's safe to say the four of us lived up the night train experience.  We played MASH, folded and unfolded the seats with reckless abandon, ate Czechoslovakian cookies, told stories, stuck our heads out the windows, and generally fell in love with the gold-and-maroon 4' x 6' space that we made our home for the night.  

The very best thing about night trains is... you wake up in a new country!  When 6 a.m. came, completely well-rested and not at all stiff, grumpy, disoriented or smelly, we happily bounded from our little bunks.  "Good morning, Krakow!" we chirped like little Polish birdies.  Well, basically.  And we didn't get robbed!  Or, as my dad put it, we didn't get a "visit from the Ether Bunny."  

To Be Continued...

Can I Call This Post "When In Rome..."?

Or maybe "Roma!" or "Rome-in' Around?"  

Or maybe not?

Anyway, I went to Rome.  It was more wonderful than I ever could have imagined.  I saw beautiful old things, gawked at beautiful people, ate delicious food, saw nuns, visited museums and churches, walked a lot, saw the Colosseum and the Forum, drank wine in piazzas, climbed St. Peter's, and ate gelato after (and sometimes before) every meal.  Including breakfast.  

Pictures hardly do it justice, but if you are so inclined please click here and take a gander.  And I could write about the trip until I get carpal tunnel and your eyes dry out, but there is just simply too much to say.  So instead of giving you a play-by-play of my itinerary, I instead present to you:

Rome According to Whitney:

A Short Collection of Miracles

The Miracle of the Coronas

So the first night in Rome, Ellen and I were at the Trevi fountain (which, as a side note, seemed way less "ancient Rome!" than it did "Sea Woooooorld!" but that's okay) awaiting the arrival of the rest of our fellow Roman travelers.  The weather was perfect, there were people all about, the water was splashing in the background, and we were so content to sit on the ledge and dangle our feet.  

"Do you know what would be perfect right now?" Ellen asked. "Two ice cold Coronas." (I know, I know, Coronas in Europe?  But the setting called for them.  I promise.)

"Brought to us on a platter by two beautiful Italian men!" I added.

We sighed.  

Approximately three seconds later, Ellen turned her head.  "Are those... Coronas?"

No.  Way.

We turned around, and seating directly behind us were two men on a bench.  

Dark, handsome men.  

Tall, dark, handsome, young, Italian men.  

Holding Coronas.  

I wish I could say "and the rest is history!" but we were feeling bashful/jet lagged/non-Italian-speaking, plus I promised Mom I wouldn't come back from Europe married and/or with child... so the following clandestine picture is all I can give you as a resolution to this story.  But what a story it is!

The Miracle of the Orange Tree

Later the same night of the Miracle of the Coronas, we met up with Mike and decided to stroll around the city some more.  I'm sure Rome is great at any time of the year, but Rome is especially great in the springtime.  The flowers were blooming, the weather was phenomenal, and there were trees just dripping with oranges everywhere!  

There was one particular row of orange trees that Ellen and I had passed a few hours before.   The oranges looked so delicious and juicy, but of course any that were within arm's reach had been snatched up already, leaving only the ones at the very tops of the trees.  Seeing as we are neither giraffes nor Jerome Jordan, we were resigned to walking back home empty-handed.  As we wandered by again with Mike, I pointed up to the trees.

"Gahhhh I wish one would just fall!" I said.

We took approximately two steps.  

"Thunk," an orange said, as it fell to the ground.

We all stared stupidly until Mike finally said, "One just fell down!" (thanks Mike!) and scooped it up.  We then attempted to recreate the magic via digital camera, but it's good to know that I have the power of making fruit fall from trees.

The Miracle of Papa Benedetto

So we were in Rome during Palm Sunday... pretty exciting.  I was disappointed when I read online that your bishop has to request tickets for papal Mass months in advance, but I thought perhaps we could still attend the blessing of the palms on Sunday morning.

"Do you know anything about the blessing of the palms or Mass at St. Peter's?" I asked the hostel-guy.  

"No," he said.  ("Oh," I said.)  "Except I do have these extra tickets to attend, if you want them or something," he said.  ("Uhhhh," I said.)

So basically, five beautiful yellow tickets to Palm Sunday Mass with the Pope landed in our hands.  Just like that.  

Mass itself was incredible.  Two bazillion people were squished into St. Peter's square and we all celebrated together in every language and dear Papa Benedetto took a victory lap around in the Popemobile afterwards.  

The Miracle of the Nutella Latte

Scene: Afternoon, in a park outside the Borghese Gallery in Rome.  Ellen and Whitney, having had to forgo breakfast in order to participate in a ridiculous art-gallery-searching-goose-chase that morning, are famished.  They order sandwiches and are just about to pay when something else catches their attention: Nutella lattes! "Yum," they think, and order one apiece.

Scene: Five minutes later, at a cafe table.  The waiter gives each girl a mug of frothy steamed milk.  Smiling deviously, he produces a 5 kg (no really) jar of Nutella.  (Five kilograms.  That's like eleven pounds.  That's like... a baby.)  Using both hands, he unscrews the hubcab-sized lid and inserts a giant ladle.  One man-fist-sized blob of Nutella splashes into Whitney's mug, one into Ellen's.  He hands them spoons and smiles.  

Scene: Twenty minutes later, in the grass.  Whitney and Ellen lay paralyzed by hazlenut-overdose.  They smile.  "We like Rome," they decide.