Dobry den, again, again

I rumbled out of Romania last night. From the sleepy little town of Sighisoara, I crept across rural Transylvania, bounding between the backs of the mighty Carpathians, sweeping through the gypsy camps and medieval villiages dotting the hillsides, and bouncing over the border to Hungary, the land of the Torma.

I never felt safe in Romania. The gypsies, however, were the least of my worries (although on one occasion, I had to throw cigarettes at a pack of them to cover my escape). The dogs were the source of my fear. An English woman warned me, "if you meet a pack of wild dogs on the hillside, be careful, cause they might maim and kill you." So, when I met a pack of wild dogs on the hillside the next day, I was careful to avoid the fulfillment of her prophecy. And, I'm happy to say, my quizzical compatriots, that I have all my limbs and digits firmly intact. I did, however, feel like a pencil lead in a giant maze. Turn first alley, dogs say no. Retrace steps. Find new passage, again, blocked by dogs. Retrace. There was only 1 path back to the hostel, and after a bit of trial and error, my posse and I found it. Bucharest bore me, Brasov and Sighisoara undid me. (If anyone understands that, I'll buy you an Efes or a jug of Old Scrumpy).

The truth of the matter is that I found Romania, for the most part, boring. I would've liked to have had a car there (gasp!). The charms of Romania, of which there are many, I'm sure, tend to lay off the beaten track (even more so than mountain villiages in the Carpathians). I constantly felt like I wanted to set off in some random direction, find a crumbling little villiage, and have a picnic. But, alas, the dogs and gypsys made that impossible by foot. Oh, I had great times there, sitting in the swimming pool with John, watching the ravens circle the old town square in Brasov, drinking 2 litre bottles of cheap Romanian beer over goulash and cabbage pies. However, at times, the whole country seemed antagonistic to me - trying to steal my money, bite my ankles, and stand between myself, and that which I love. That's you, you Slavs, don't be coy.

Hungary is/was/will always be a different story. Eastern Europe it may be, but crossing that border felt like re-entering the civilized world. And, I was surprised to see how much more Westernized it had become in the 4 years since my last visit. Spent this afternoon in Budapest, soaking in the mineral baths in the park before bidding adieu to Kha and George and coasting across the vast Hungarian plains to Bratislava. Oh, you Slavs. You funny little Slavs, I love you. You missed me too, didn't you? Say it. Go on, don't be shy...

So, it's not Prague, not yet, but I still get a dobry den when I skip down the street, a prosim when I sweep up my change, and the trams still say (Priste zastavka...). Thomas, please refrain from correcting my spelling. Diky moc. And, while I've got you in the paragraph, I'll be there Saturday afternoonish. I've got to check the train schedule, but I know I'm only about four hours away! Exciting, innit? And you, quid dicere debeo? hicne legere debes? basia mille tibi... For the rest of you, only basia centa. You'll have to come to Prague to pick up the other 900.

Forever your pair of ragged claws,

Aaron Rotsinger

Sic transit gloria mundi!

O my scattered, smothered, chunked, topped and diced companions,

Rejoice, for I have found a Waffle House in Istanbul! Ah, but a little caution is advised, for copyright laws form the punch lines to many jokes in this city of back alleys and sly smiles, and imitation only seldom surpasses the original. Waffles are fashionable among the middle-class Turks, and the forward-thinking (but oft cloud-gazing) Turks prefer English names nearly as much as simplicity, so Waffle Houses are aplenty here. But, O wary traveler, they share nothing more than an appelation with the greasy pit-stop we all hold so dear.

Yet, alas! A true Waffle House seems to exist, albeit on the foreign shores of Bebek, so far from my world in geography and culture that we may as well not inhabit the same city. Yet, as a testament to the varying levels of sludge that capitalism flings across the world, I can promise each and every one of you a night out drinking on two different continents, followed by a triple order of hash browns and a diluted Waffle House (tm) coffee in the morning. All for only the price of a return ticket to this Queen of Cities, this Whore of Kingdoms, Istanbul!

Unfortunately, however, you'll have to wait until the season shifts, for with the devil's own luck, I'll be crawling out of this tangle of thorns by Bosfor Ekpresı, and resting my pinions on the sparkling sands of Bulgaria's Black Sea resort in oft-overlooked Varna, home of the 75 kuruş shot of tequila (O my long lost friend).

For ten months I have been curling in a corner of a dilapidated office building, scrubbing mold off my walls, chasing cockroaches out the front door. For ten months I have suffered the indignities of mad Turkish businessmen, of mealy-mouthed landlords, of donkey-meat durums. For ten months I have slipped from pub to pub, glided from kebapcı to kebapcı, twirled from crumbling church to ruined mosque. For Ten Months I have been bereft of refrigerator, bathtub, and washing-machine, of comfort, purpose, and inspiration, of life, death, and only the brief stumble of innocence in between has roused me from my sweat-stained matress on tentative mornings.

And in seven days, on a soft July night, I will escape by Midnight Express, with the brightest jewel in this zirconia-encrusted empire secreted away in my belt-pouch. What will you do, O Istanbul, when you find I've stolen your treasure? Will your buildings tremble? Will your foundations shake? Will your adhaans become wails and your imams tear their clothes? Or will you even notice? Non omne quod nitet aurum est. And you never could tell the difference. But for me, perception is the only reality.

O Prague, you city-that-is-not-a-city, roll out your old Communist carpets, stock up your herna bars, and brush those German tourists aside, for in a few short weeks, I'll be returning to your sticky lipstick kisses, marching up Karlov Most, and snatching the crown from your head, if only for a short while. This time, there will be sparks, and there will be fire, and I will lovingly ground your embers into dust with the heel of my best boots. It will hurt, O my city, but it will be the sweet bite of pleasure, not pain, that makes you gasp as I wind my fingers into your ringlets and snap your head back in passion.

The islands are calling me, and the shores are far away. Good morning and good night, depending on your proximity to the sun.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih