I'm Hungary

A few observations on life in Hungary lately:

1. Attila, as in Attila the Hun, is a common male name here. Does anyone else find this cute?

2. As I've mentioned before, I spend a lot of time here driving. Somewhere in the vicinity of 600+ km per week. So I've noticed a few things about Hungarian roads and drivers. As mentioned previously, drivers flash their hazards when they've screwed up to say sorry. This is nice. They'll also flash their right blinker to let you know it's safe to pass them on a single-lane highway. I also find this nice.
What I don't find so nice is how Hungarian construction crews have a tendency to erect signs (like permanent, staked-into-the-ground road signs) around road work sites and then just leave them up long after they've packed up and gone home. This can result in a bit of confusion.
For example, on one section of road on my drive to practice, the speed limit is posted as follows:

80 km/h
40 km/h
60 km/h
80 km/h
70 km/h

ALL of those changes are posted within a stretch of less than 1 km. If my math serves me correctly (probably not) we're talking a speed-limit change about every 200 m. I know those signs were erected as a result of road work because I had to take this little side road for the first 2 months of training while the road workers finished an overpass. This made the 40 km/h limit semi-useful. I still don't know about the other 4.
On another stretch of the highway, there are a series of those white and red arrows indicating a sharp turn ahead. Except these arrows point in the opposite direction of the way the road curves.
Finally, there is a part of the road just outside our town that is just ridiculous. It's like driving over an open field that was once paved. For anyone that remembers Ace Ventura 2, it's exactly like this:



3. I've noticed Hungarians, and Europeans in general, tend to use exclamation marks much more liberally than most North Americans. All kinds of official notices and placards contain multiple exclamation marks, which makes me sort of feel like I'm either being yelled at or like it's a joke. I've noticed that really serious signs, like the one in our apartment hallway on the voltage box that says 320 V is just a lot less serious sounding when it's 320 V! That comment might seem contradictory but in my eyes exclamation marks lose their potency when used haphazardly all over the place like that.
A while back we got a notice at our apartment saying maintenance men would be coming around in a few days to replace the vent in our bathroom. This contained no less than 9 exclamation marks and read something like: Make sure to be home Nov. 28 !! Your vents must be changed!!! Please! Thank you!!!

I just find this strange.
If you have any European friends on Facebook (preferably under 25), take a look at their wall and notice how many !!!!'s there are and/or :) :) :)'s. I bet you'll notice one of either of those just doesn't seem to do the trick over here. This extends from teenagers on Facebook up to practically the highest levels of Hungarian government. I half expected to see a cool a baker's dozen exclamation marks on my Hungarian visa.


(If you haven't seen that episode watch this one first)

4. In closing, can we just reflect on 260-year old mustard. I've noticed in N. America companies sometimes advertise how long they've been making quality products for. This is usually proclaimed on the front of packages like "Since 1973" or some year in the 20th century. For some reason I'm really amused that products here proclaim, "Since 1705" like it's no big deal. I was eating a sandwich the other day and noticed the mustard I was eating has been around for 260 years. I mean really. You just can't argue with that. That sandwich made me feel like I was eating a piece of history between two slices of rye.

Trapped in a Maze Therefore I Am Amazing

I'ma go out on a limb here and say there's something you hopefully do everyday and I bet you've never actually seen yourself do... shower.
I'm not trying to go anywhere with that, but twice a week at one of the gyms we practice in, I have that opportunity... To do what so few have done and shower in a showercurtain-less row of showers facing a wall of mirrors. Don't worry, one day you too may create a sentence using 'shower' so many times in so many different words.
For those who haven't done the deed, let me say this: showering facing a mirror is kind of awkward and you realize Ferris Bueller made it look a lot more glamorous than it is.  No mohawks, no singing, and certainly no cameras. Just slicked back soap hair and squinty eyes which is not a good look on anyone.

I'm not sure why I even brought that up but when I started writing, I just felt like I needed to share. I now realize I don't know enough to say anything grand about showering and I'm beginning to think the above paragraphs may mark the beginning of the end of this blog...

Actually, speaking of bad hair, I should mention I currently have it on a permanent basis. Having bleached my hair to an unnatural shade of white for the last 3 years, I am now paying penance in the form of having the short haircut of a 65-year old.
Leaving the salon, I had a vague inkling I looked a little more elderly than I did when I walked in  upon but there wasn't much I could do. Unfortunately, this feeling was driven home the following Sunday when I was sitting behind an elderly woman in her 60's and my husband mistook us for one another. I can't blame him since we are the same person from behind... but I'm already paranoid about turning 25 -- it's just the beginning of a steady decline til I really am 65 and one sneeze away from kicking the bucket -- so it still hurt.
This is the part where I'd normally post a picture of the coif... but instead I will revel in the delight that is living thousands of miles from anyone who knows me and continue to live incognito until this farce that is my dome sorts itself out. The funny thing about getting one's hair done here, ugly or otherwise, is that it is a ridiculously long process. I sat in the chair for no less than 4 hours, raletalk, only to walk out looking none the better for it.
The lengthy nature of Hungarian haircuts is not isolated to my experience; apparently the investment of one's time for a man's cut is similarly extravagant. We're talking around the 2-hour range. I don't even know how that's possible but I've had that corroborated credible sources so I'm not just making that up. I like to imagine the stylist snipping approximately one strand at a time.

Moving on. 

Another Hungarian curiosity I've noticed is the fact that milk is available in containers no larger than 1 litre. I get that Euro portions are smaller across the board so I'm not trying to be surprised here but this is phenomenon is getting out of hand. A trip to the grocery store results in my looking like a crazy person feeding a large troupe of infants (come to think of it, I guess Ian could be considered as much?) because no adult(s) could possibly drink that much milk.
I look like an idiot a lot in Hungary, mostly because I don't speak the language so I legitimately have to act crazy a lot of the time to communicate - gesturing, looking overly confused and/or helpless to get my point across, using impossibly bad grammar, etc. are all part of the game - but I feel like buying groceries is one of those areas I could avoid it.
Furthermore, it results in my fridge looking like a full-on dairy case:

You're probably asking yourself who needs 11+ litres of various kinds of milk - we've got normal, chocolate, and umm, ok that's all - but that's not something I have an answer to. I guess I just eat a lot of cereal, back off. I just want to say that it would be a lot less ridiculous looking to buy a couple gallons/4L's of milk as opposed like, 94 little cartons. It also makes my hands feel/look even more Hulk-esque because what reasonable person buys - and is then forced to then handle & pour - milk in such tiny pathetic containers?

Rollin on 22's

A couple lessons in driving from the locals:

The other week, I was driving my usual route to practice when I ran over some dude's load of plywood that was strewn all over the road. Apparently I neglected to notice that the truck in front of me that was re-routing itself into oncoming traffic was doing so to avoid another little truck's load that had been lost on the street...
A little antsy to get out of the car after driving for an hour (ONE way. I am logging some serious miles this year) I forged ahead and realized juuuust as I was my back tires cleared the wood, "Oh. THAT'S why that guy is carrying sheets of plywood to the side of the road...". I looked in my rearview mirror just in time to see the guy look back at me with a look of perplexed rage.

I have never driven those last 2 minutes to the gym so fast.

This would be nothing more than an embarrassing story to demonstrate I can be inadvertently be a jerk behind the wheel, except that later in the week I learned Hungarians have a cute habit of flashing their hazards one time if they cut you off or otherwise do something douchey. In a word, I think this is great. We have horns/special fingers to let people know they've wronged us, but how are we to make amends if we almost t-bone a city bus while pulling out of the grocery store parking lot (hypothetically speaking obviously)?
The beauty of this concept is one could just roll around, cutting people off at will and all is theoretically forgiven with the swift push of a button.
I should mention credible sources says this is common all over Europe... but I definitely never saw any form of magical light-flashing after getting cut off by more than one a Frenchman. So I say it's up for debate. Also, I realize the wave could sort of be put in this category, but in my books that's more of a thank you than a sorry so it's omitted.

Also a few weeks back, I was driving to church in Budapest. Once just inside the city I exited the freeway and noticed a guy standing outside his car which was pulled over on the side of the off-ramp. I figured hey, we can help a dude out and slow down to pull over. Right about as the guy is jogging up to the window I panicked and remembered I don't speak any Hungarian to even ask what's wrong (unfortunately apple, yes, no, and numbers 1 through 20 don't help in a situation like this so they don't count).
I was likely to only make the situation worse, or at the very least super awkward, buuuut it was too late to drive away. So I rolled down my window to humour the guy. Turns out buddy was looking for directions to another city.

I like to think this is the way all Hungarians behave when lost.
Rather than head to a gas station or non-existent 7-11, it's definitely a way better idea to just pull over and wait until the directions come to you.
The plan's only flaw is the possibility that idiot foreigners who speak no Hungarian will be the only people who pull over to help. Fortunately for me, dude was looking for a city that was printed on a sign about 200m down the road so by pointing this out, I ended up looking like the hero after all. Or at least like an individual with functioning eyes.

I plan on incorporating both driving techniques into my repertoire.

Just a little FYI

In the interest of not subjecting people to "Colette has written a new note" every 4 days on their newsfeed, posts won't be automatically synced to upload to Facebook anymore. So if you usually read on there, check the real blog instead HERE. Thanks!

EDIT: Apparently people liked that... So it's still on the Fbook.

Pele

In keeping with the recent basketball theme, I present this gem. This Serbian cat was Mr. J's coach last year... Obviously I went to the games for the basketball, but secretly mostly to watch this man put on a show.

For example:



In case anyone missed it, at the very beginning #4 in red (the coach's team) gets a technical for talking back a little to the ref. Stojan is obviously displeased by this and begins a tirade of unprecedented form to let reffy know whatup. Somehow despite the circus act just performed, no technical is given here...
I also love the NHL-style boards behind the visiting team bench, probably put in place precisely to protect in just such cases.

Pure gold.

Poor Little Lamb

This shot courtesy of Ian's game tonight.

From what I'm told, a hit like this is comparable in pain to something like childbirth... He claims it's worse than that if the shot is delivered by a 7'1" behemoth.

Regardless, the man's face says it all.

Gym Rats, Part II

I realized after the last post that I have a lot more to say about gym attire, etiquette and general gym gong show-ery.

First off I have to say that although I thought last week's flexing parade was a one-time deal, OH HOW I WAS MISTAKEN. I trudged across the street again yesterday, prepared for another delightful lift with the motley crew of characters in the gym. This time upon entering the gym my thoughts went from shock to horror to aaahahaha this is really happening to just ....... The equivalent of a mental flatline. There was just nothing left in my poor confused dome.

This was because this time, there was yet another short muscled dude flexing in front of the large wall of mirrors (I probably shouldn't be surprised anymore at this point). Except this guy was NAKED.

...with the exception of a tiny pair of purple boxer briefs covering his goods.
WHERE. AM. I?

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing and begin rolling on the floor. Also, though it's probably not worth mentioning after I recount that show, Arnold also made another shirtless flexing appearance later in the lift as well.

So that's hopefully the concluding chapter on clothes-less flexing in local Hungarian gyms but who knows. Next time I walk in there someone will probably be unhealthily tan, greased up and wearing a man-thong. Pray for me.

Speaking of gyms though, I have a few more things I don't understand, such as what's with the fact that EVERY gym has "that guy" who works out exclusively in jean cutoffs? And yes, for a change, I'm not exaggerating here. I have never lifted at a gym on a regular basis and not seen that guy. Doesn't matter what country/what kind of gym. Just once I just want to say to this guy, "Everyone else here is wearing regular work out gear. Why is khaki/denim your performance fabric of choice?"
Who knows, the rest of us could have it all wrong. Maybe these cats are onto something.

I will also, for the rest of my life, remain perplexed about the guy I saw wearing flip flops in mid-February at the university gym in Winnipeg. I first rationalized that maybe he just forgot his runners since he was otherwise dressed appropriately in workout shorts and a t-shirt.
But then I realized we were in the depths of Canadian winter and ain't nobody wearing flip flops to school when it's snowing. No, this was a deliberate choice.
Dude had to have had a moment that morning where he thought "No, these green Havaianas will definitely be a much better choice than the New Balances sitting in my gym bag. I'll take these."
Further, let's say I go back to throwing homie a bone and that he did actually just forget his runners, why wouldn't he have just worn the closed-toe footwear I'm sure he wore to school? I'd have paid money to see someone workout in Sorels. Just clomping around, trying not to step on people's toes or crush workout equipment like some boot-wearing Godzilla.


And I know all the Canadians out there know what I'm talking about because you had a pair from grade 1 through 6. Don't deny it. Along with the Canadian Tuxedo, it's part of the fashion heritage that binds us.

Finally, I should mention I once saw a woman asleep on a stationary bike at the same university gym. This is also not a lie. I've never seen anything like it before and doubt very highly I will ever see it again. You probably won't either so this is what it looks like:
A slim, middle-aged woman is sitting on a reclined stationary bike reading but not peddling. As her head begins to bob, I notice her legs finally begin peddling, albeit verrrrrrry slowly and umm, backwards. Then, as her head falls violently to her chest, she briefly wakes up, begins moving her legs equally slowly in the forward peddling direction.
Riveted, I sit on a bike nearby and watch this spectacle go on for about 10 minutes before the woman wakes up. She finishes up the last few pages of her Reader's Digest, all the while peddling too slowly for the "Use the arrows to select a workout or press quick start to begin" screen to disappear off the bike's screen. I guess at this point she decides she's had a gruelling enough cardio sesh for the day, gets off, and proceeds to spray the bike down with disinfectant.
It was all I could do not to get off my own bike and give her a hearty pat on the back. Both for a workout well-done and for having accomplished what I never thought was possible - napping and working out at the same time.

Rugged Good Looks

I lift in a gym across the street.

In my experience, this is a pretty ordinary place by Euro gym standards - carpeted floors, archaic machines with no instructions and a mini treadmill circa 1993. Seriously, most of the treadmills I've run across (pun not even intended I swear) in Europe are like, half the length of a normal treadmill. If the threat of faceplanting off the end of one of those things doesn't make you keep those knees up, I don't know what will.

What I've come to realize is not so normal of late are some of the individuals frequenting this gym. First off, I've noticed a strange affinity by many of the gym's users for working out barefoot or just in socks.
Like, I would estimate at least 50% of the dudes in there are shoeless.
Maybe there's a reason for this, but I don't know/can't figure out what it is and it violates what was always ingrained in me to be the first rule of the weight room - keep your kicks tied because one day you will drop something on your toe.
And it will be heavy.
This was impressed on me repeatedly from my first days in the "Wellness Center" at Salisbury Composite High School and though I doubt many of us stopped to think that a thin layer of whatever they make shoes out of these days would offer all that much protection, it just seems to make sense.
So there's that.

Then there's a character I see there each time I workout who I like to call Arnold. Arnold is in his early 20s and seems to think quite highly of himself. But hey, that isn't all that out of the ordinary in the gym you say.
True, and while I have seen guys check themselves out repeatedly in the mirror while doing the 3845th set of bicep curls, I have to say I have never seen a show quite like this boy put on last Wednesday.

I'm minding my own business trying not to be talked to since then the cat would be out of the bag that I neither speak nor understand Hungarian... and for some reason keeping this a secret for as long as possible is important to me in this environment. Probably because I don't want to be constantly suspicious that people are talking crap about me when they are standing right beside me.
I know it sounds incredibly vain and self-absorbed to think people are talking about me at all times, but any of you who have lived/visited places where people know you're a dumb foreigner understand the fear, however irrational. People take advantage of stupidity, I'm telling you.

Anyway, I'm minding my own business when to my horror/great amusement I look up to see Arnold has pulled his shirt off over his head and is in the process of flexing his pecs, Mr. Universe-style in the mirror in front of him. The strangest part, besides the fact this went on for a good 10 minutes, was that nobody else even batted so much as an eyelash that this might be slightly out of the ordinary. Nobody looked over, nobody even acknowledged anything was taking place. I was shocked and hard pressed not to drop my dumbbells on the barefoot kid beside me.
What? In what country is this a normal thing to do? Evidently I answer my own question. I also neglect to mention that last week he and the crew were lifting up their shirts to compare abs... so I don't know why I'm surprised.

No I don't know this cat. And no he isn't Arnold.
But I have no doubt he would've been taking advantage had a camera been present.

My favourite part was that after this spectacle ended I get back to my workout, shaking my head all the while, only to look up again about 10 minutes later and discover Arnold has once again taken off his shirt. This time however, a small crowd of 7 or so homies had gathered - all of whom were admiring his chiselled musculature. Extensive leg flexing was also part of this second routine.

This would have been merely hilarious to me, except for the fact that I regularly get stared at in that place on the regular like I have a third arm or something. That day, I was wearing a particularly extravagant and ridiculous outfit consisting of a black shirt and black pants. You know how people sometimes say they have a particular song they would choose to act as their theme song on the soundtrack of their life? No contest, the period of my life lived in Europe would be set to circus music.

Speaking of staring, I'm not about to start a trend of complaining about things that I don't understand about other cultures, but I'll indulge myself once. Now.
One illustration will suffice: one day a few summers ago while on the metro in the middle of the city in France, I'm on my way to the park to go for a run. I'm being stared at profusely as usual, presumably because I'm wearing a clown suit in the form of running shorts and a t-shirt. This goes on for a number of minutes, before a man gets on carrying 2 huge long pool noodles. This, of course, is not out of the ordinary for anyone on the metro and Noodle Man proceeds to stare at me intently for the remainder of my trip... as if he has just watched me stomp on the toes of the granny standing beside me. As I exited the train I wanted to just grab one of the pool noodles and make a run for it. I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO STARE AT!!!!!

This Ish is Bananas

First off, a couple things I saw while in Budapest the other day:

While leisurely strolling the boulevards of the capital, I witnessed a handcuffed man on a leash.
Dude was being walked by who I assume were the local cops, hands cuffed in front. Attached to said cuffs was a thin leather leash. This method instantly removes the "this guy is so tough we need to cuff his hands safely behind his back, while maintaining a firm grip on his shoulder or he could throwdown" aspect of the equation...
This. Is. Absolutely. Brilliant.
At this point I was half-expecting homie to lift his leg to relieve himself on the nearest goulash stand.
Because really, what is more humiliating than being paraded down the street attached to the leash that's normally reserved for Sheriff Gabor's chihuahua during off-hours?

I say, Budapest Fuzz: 1, Everybody Else: 0.

Secondly, wild beasts are once again runnin' free in the Hungarian streets:


Granted, those aren't wild. But that's not important right now.
We had an appointment to get to at the U.S. consulate so Ian, his American teammate and I debated for a hot minute whether passing the carriage would make the horses feel bad... At that point though, we'd been following the coach (carriage? handsome cab? What is the proper terminology here?) for a cool half-kilometer, and its pace was seriously starting to cramp our style. Not to mention the 11 cars jammed up behind us.
I tip my proverbial hat to those horses for their efforts though. Their trotting was probably a reasonably "grueling pace" (Oregon Trail, HOLLA) by old-timey standards, but we had an appointment to get to. So we left Black Beauty & Firefoot in our dust.
I have to respect/be confused by a place where horses-drawn vehicles get to roll in the bus lane. What is this society coming to? Evidently, something like the turn of 19th century.

Finally, this has nothing to do with the above, but Hungarians are made of raw steel (as opposed to unraw steel like say, the Germans). Or at least the women are. It probably has something to do with being born behind the Iron Curtain or something to do with smelting iron... I don't really know what that means but I've always wanted to say smelting.
I digress.
I make this observation because in my game this past weekend, the middle & captain of the other team was a spring chicken of no less than 46 years old. Forty. Six.
That is straight up 3 years shy of double my age. Just let that marinate in your dome for a few seconds and imagine playing ball for something like 3 decades.
1976 called, they want their knee pads back.
Naturally, as I began to do this math my mind was blown to small pieces. Mostly because I suck at math. But upon consulting my abacus, I realized, yes, this woman could in fact easily have sired me herself.

And yet, this story gets better. Because her own flesh and blood was already on the court. In the form of the team's setter aka her daughter.
There is so much to say there I don't even have anything to say. What? Who? HOW?

I would just like to shoutout my own coach who betters this, by having participated last year in the Budapest schools' Jr. Olympics as a setter (surrounded by her 16-year old teammates) at the ripe young age of 49. Hot dayum.

Please Believe

Man. If activity up in hurr is to be believed, I'm dead.

Apologies but it's mostly just that life in Peg City doesn't hold much of a candle to the craziness that was SE Asia back at the end of '09. So I haven't had much to say. I've been steady on the grind... training, sleeping, eating, training, sleeping, and training. I kid not. It's been good but there's not a lot else to say about the daily goings on here. Here's the part of the post where I proceed to talk about an array of miscellaneous topics despite just saying I have nothing to say.

First off, I have made some new discoveries this year. I live in the future. I mean, come on.
2010.
Look at that number and tell me it looks real life. It doesn't. It looks like the future. And this has nothing do with anything but what am I supposed to say next year looking back? Back in ten? Oh-ten? The two-zero-one-zero? (Do yourself a favour and go listen to 'One-Nine-Nine-Nine' if you haven't lately. On that note, what happened to Common?). Two thousand ten just has no spice... I think I'ma go with two-thousand and win.
Pick up your mind, cause I just blew it all over the place.

Second, this wasn't a discovery but rather a reaffirmation that I ought to stick closely to the sports I've been assigned. In an effort to keep things fresh, the good folks at Team Canada have allowed us to embark on different athletic pursuits one afternoon every couple weeks instead of regular practice. This spells terrible news for me, particularly the times when we've played badminton and squash. I knew this before but I am actually beyond painfully awful at any and all racket sports.
Shoutout to my boy Matt who tried to give me tennis lessons back in my Arizona days.
Anyway, we at Team Canadia played a couple of tournaments and suffice it to say I lost every single match I played in. Real talk. I can run, I can jump but put an racket/bat/stick/instrument of any kind in my hand ask me to swipe, backhand or whatever it is they say in those games and it's all bad. Adding insult to injury, I live with a female Agassi in the form of my roommate who absolutely destroyed everyone at both games. I was the pathetic loser kid who'd have been picked last if anyone was picking teams. I also suck at hockey. And wall climbing. And swimming. The list could go on.

It's all fun and games til I start wielding that racket.

Third, this also has nothing to do with anything but I had to tell someone about this. In my junk mail the other day, amidst the grocery store flyers and whatnot, was an ad for a local church's Easter pageant. I'm all about getting the Easter celebration done up right but this one pushed the envelope a little too far. Like over the cliff. I should've saved it and taken a picture as proof but luckily it's seared in my memory. What I remember was it's called 'Robin of the Hood' and follows Robin Hood as he and his men learn the true meaning of Easter as set to the music of Michael Jackson's Thriller.

...

What in the...? Worlds just collided. MJ? Robin Hood? Easter message? One of these things is not like the other one.
And I swear I couldn't make that up if I tried. Ah Winnipeg, you never cease to impress me.

And that's about all I'm gonna write for now. 'Preshate the the fact that you're still reading despite my pathetic posting of late. This one is no exception.
It's 10:41 PM and I've taken to going to bed at the same time as my 92-year old Granny (big up Grandog). I also just drove across Canada after flying home Friday and spending exactly 28.5 hours at home. So I'm bagged. More on that later. At any rate, I promise activity levels around this part of the innanets will pick up. In the meantime, g'night.