A Fortuitous Fashion Affair in Budapest

I arrived to Budapest in a cardigan on a brisk Saturday afternoon, the final destination of a 10-day Central Europe excursion. Aside from Harry Potter references of Hungarian dragons and wizards, I had no knowledge of the local language or culture. Over the course of a weekend, however, I came to learn three valuable things: “szia” (pronounced see you) means hello; “allo” means goodbye; and the city’s fashion-minded people have a style sense that’s anything but backwards.  

Parlement Building

After slipping on a sweater at the hostel, I embarked on a self-guided city tour, a quick dip past the major attractions then off to the fun parts of town, the shopping and nightlife districts. Having visited the fashion capital Milan at the start of my trip, I had little expectations for the fashion scene here. But it became clearly evident that these Hungarians know more than a thing or two on style. Barely 50 degrees out and they've united statement skirts with knits, sweater vests with shorts, and it all looked AMAZING. While the Champs-Elysee equivalent Adrassy Avenue displayed the latest collections of Prada, Dior, Gucci and the like, what impressed me more were the little gems hidden around the corners. Taking a right on Kiraly Street I stumbled upon the hype eyewear store Orange Optica that showcased a collection of frames entirely carved from tree bark. I then peeled off toward the underground bar scene on Kazinsky Street and stepped inside Kék Ló Fashion Pub, a combination boutique and bar. Beer in hand I perused the handmade felt jewelry and sequence-sewn sweaters, all reasonably priced and so very chic. My bill came out to two Heinekens and a leather braided headband, though I gladly would have bought the whole collection had I the money or room in my suitcase.

The end of Kazinsky Street led me to Erzsébet Tér Park, a stomping ground for local artists, musicians and designers to show off and sell their work. As it was getting late many were packing up to leave, so I approached a brunette woman wearing the most deliciously dap watermelon pink sneakers.

“I love your shoes!” I said. She thanked me, explaining that her friend had made them. She then asked if I liked making clothes and wrote down an address, suggesting I come by tomorrow afternoon to see her friend’s show. “It will be fun!”

Confused but more than intrigued, I arrived the next day to find a grungy apartment building, the ground floor a vacant pub still unkempt from the night before. I hesitated, the survival instincts of a girl traveling alone pushing to turn around and leave. But the traveler in me, the “you only live once” part of my mind, overruled and thus I crept through the bar and followed the arrow-signs up a back staircase to the fourth floor. There I discovered a room of about 30 people grabbing at an enormous table piled high with strips of cloth, leather scraps and all other imaginable fabrics. A beautiful blonde woman stood before them, demonstrating how to handle a leather puncher on a pair of navy ballet slippers crisscrossed with black straps.

Two things came to mind. First, that I had found the magician of cloth who made the heavenly shoes and second, what am I doing at her workshop? Just then the brunette I had met the night before approached me, placing scissors in my one hand and gently grabbing the other.

“This is Anna,” she said, introducing me to the designer. “She is opening her beauty school, so today is the party.” Anna, about to stitch a velvet wallet, stopped to give me a hug. Not even asking if I lived in Budapest, let alone had an interest in her school, she generously showed me the different tools I could use to piece together a purse or hat or anything I liked.

“I’ve, um, never really….” My cheeks turned pink, intimidated by all the creative energy flowing around me.

“This is your first time? Perfect!” she smiled, and guided me over to the fabric table. “Pick your favorites, and see what happens.”

I stared at the table for a good three minutes before finally closing my eyes and picking two at random. A thin blue leather strap and a sheet of teal satin. Okay, inspiration, I thought, come hither! Of course, no sparks, so I instead went about the room hoping to extract ideas from my fellow novices. Turned out that I was the only novice. Everyone else clipped and snipped away at their wallets and belts and shoes, mixing and combining the strangest of materials to make something totally original. I felt in awe, watching them handle the textile glue and sewing machines with such finesse, yet I knew in terms of creativity that I could come up with something just as fun. 

I finally decided to make a bracelet. After 90 minutes of intense focus and the help of Anna’s skillful hands, I managed to create a double tour trinket totally worth wearing. I stood for a photo alongside the designer, proudly showing off my final product. I know full well that it cannot compare to anything she or any other fashionistas in Budapest sell in their stores, but this bracelet I fabricated from a pile of scraps contains my own energy, my ideas, and my memories of this vibrant, inviting city, which to me makes it a piece of art. 

Goodbye Glorious Globo Gym: The Horrors of Fitness Feminine

So this concept called 'the lady gym' seems to be a big fad here in French fry country.

"Salle de sport pour femme EXCLUSIVEMENT!" one ad reads.

"Fitness 100% Femmes" says another.

As if my workout experience will be significantly improved by removing all the sexy shirtless men with raging biceps and instead replacing them with post-labor moms and yoga freaks. But I decide to try it out anyway, because the goal of my second year here in France is to immerse myself into the culture, to see life through the eyes of les gens français (and I found a Groupon deal for a one month membership trial).

So the gym's called Lady City. Okay, I get it. Ladies in the ville can get their groove on too! With its location in the city centre, I figured the establishment would be no LifeTime Fitness or anything, but I tend to only stick to the treadmill and freeweights anyway so a small gym would suffice. Even better, google maps says it's only 10 minutes to walk there from my apartment, meaning I can easily reincorporate working out into my daily schedule. This is turning out to be the best idea ever!!!!!!!

And then I remember that I'm in France.

My trip begins with a humiliating 10 minute hussle through the city streets in which every passerby, men and women alike, shot me the death stare for sporting tennis shoes out in public (Imagine if I had dared to wear sweatpants!!). I finally arrive, and the women at the desk is all but excited to see a new face. Apparently as an interested client you cannot just walk in and sign up, but rather have to take a rendevous, preferably set for weeks later. Insisting that I am only free to sign up now, the women rolls her eyes and inputs my information, appalled that I would dare take two whole precious minutes of her time (and wearing sneakers at that!)

Having passed level 1 (judgement on the streets) and level 2 (evil receptionist), I proceed to check out the gym I just signed my life away to for the next 30 days. The room before me, slightly bigger than my apartment flat, contains 8 elipticals and 4 bikes, above which hang two small tvs playing MTV's finest.

Features Not Included: treadmills.

Also no towels. Not even a water fountain, as if the idea of people possibly sweating hadn't occured to them.  But maybe French women don't sweat. I peak around to the "salle de musculation" in case they simply hide away their running clients, but no. Treadmills must not be lady-like enough. I DO look very much forward to sharing the ONE set of dumbells, the weight of both not even reaching 10kg. And with the 7 pretty machines for arm and leg toning, none of which have the ability to add weight, it seems that my dream of achieving the strength of an 8-year-old girl can finally come true!

I did like the fact that the place wasn't crowded, with only two other girls my age occupying the cardio machines. I took the eliptical farthest away from the TV and tried to concentrate on my own pace, but I couldn't help but notice just how little effort my fellow meufs put into their workouts. To paint a picture on their exertion, the one had her curls down to her butt (none of which moved), and the other had on those massive Dr. Dre headphones. Neither wore a sports bra (you don't have to be a perv to notice when shes got an extra bounce there). Were their heart rates even going up? In college I witnessed my fair share of sorority-type stringbeans hogging up the good machines, flipping through Cosmo and occasionally increasing the speed to 3mph. But those girls didn't WANT to look tired, especially if so&so from Sigma Epsilon might walk by. Here, though, I have this sense that people don't actually know what sweating is. It's true that the girls are thin, but they certainly are not fit. They may gawk at my New Balance sneaks, but at least I've actually gone miles in mine. 

On the brightside the place smells perfectly odorless, the only possible benefit I can think of for a women's-only gym. And now I don't need to feel ashamed for not having run in the last week or two or six, since French girls don't do that kind of thing. As I walked out I wanted to tell the evil gatekeeper that they should consider adding a treadmill, but I don't know the word in French and I didn't bring an extra pair of shoes, so who was I to say anything. Instead I shuffled home in my sneakers to the safety of my sheltered apartment, where clothed in sweats and armed with nutella I sat down to write my rage about fitness feminine.

Trick or Treat, Sentent Mes Pieds; A French Halloween

I'm happy to say that Halloween DOES exist in France. Throughout the day I pleasantly greeted vampires, monsters and other déguisements with a nod of recognition, satisfied that my home country's commercialism had safely made its way overseas. In my city with only two metro lines, I managed to find 3 different costume stores, not to mention the witchy and catty accessories available at the 2-euro shop, Claire's and other Americano establishments. Even the supermarkets clad cash registers and cashiers alike with orange and black balloons, plus occasional cobwebs dangling in shopping carts (or at least I presume those were purposeful embellishments...). I might even go as far as to say that the Europeans do it BETTER by casually making the Nov 1st All Saints Day a national holiday so that zombie-clad teens can party on a weekday night without any grave repercussions (muahaha). But I take that back, because they still don't sell Reese's here.

The notion of French zombies running around everywhere marks the biggest difference between

Why so SERIOUS?

Halloween here and in America (and no, they don't run around in berets!). At first I understandably assumed that every costumed-participant I passed was just a huge Simon Pegg fan, each coincidentally decked out in fake blood and gore in his honor. But on closer inspection, it appeared that I, and only I, had drawn on whiskers and a red bow without the accompanying nail pegged through my forehead. When I reached our friend's apartment with my Halloweenie treats, the party hosts gladly accepted the cookies but disconcertedly looked me up and down. They watched me remove my coat, in hopeful anticipation that  perhaps I had just been waiting for the right moment to reveal my true identity: Hello Kitty RoadKill. Oh, the disappointment.

"But you're the American here!" One of the guests reminded me. His tone, amongst the other foiled eyes, was loud and clear... we expected better.

"But, but, in America we don't have to be scary on Halloween!" I tried to explain. I couldn't accept that the perfect white eared-hat I had found was clearly dismissed.

Makes you hungry?!

"Of course you can dress scary, but you can also dress up as something clever or cute!" My explanation sounded desperate, which just made my attire even more lame. "Or as a slut!" I squealed. It seemed that disapointment had already settled in, that the crowd had moved on instead to the thankfully scary bloody extremity cookies I had made for the occasion. Thank you for saving my ass, I silently prayed before chomping up a big toe.

While I personally did not see any trick-o-treaters throughout the day, word has it that many a cute little witch and ghost had gone door to door seeking bon bons in their paniers. I also was able to find some large citrouilles, the things themselves labeled "Jack-o-Lanterns" rather than pumpkins, in order to get in a bit of carving tradition.

Of course, Europe cannot match the excessiveness of decorations or the self-induced stomachaches we always connote to this time of year in the states. I missed most the pop culture references and witty word-play costumes that friends and I would painstakingly spend weeks preparing for back home (can someone share all the Miley sitings for me?!). But even without a scary movie marathon or the excuse to wear just a bra out in public, the accompanying three day weekend left plenty of room for devilish fun that certainly included a competitive share of tricks and treats.

Nutty for Nutella: The French Breakfast

I have a sweet tooth, a fact one quickly discovers when I suggest Yogurtland or Dairy Queen as a meeting spot to study or have lunch. Like a smoker to his Marlboro, I crave the sugary rush of a hot fudge sundae or a stack of Thin Mints after every meal, my mouth watering at the very mention of the word 'Scoop.' Yet the other voices in my head, reminding me of those jeans that no longer fit, or that diabetes runs in the family, limit my dessert intake to just once (or twice) a day.

In France, however, the people understand the importance of sweets to one's self-being. They do not judge one's chocoholism or the whipped cream on their crepes. Rather, they embrace sugar, celebrating it as the main ingredient for the most important meal of the day: breakfast.

We wish you a Merry Breakfast

Oh, how I LOVE French breakfast. All that pish-posh our American cereal boxes tell us about starting the day off well-balanced, rich in whole grains and fruits and other heart-healthy things.... France wants none of that. Here in baguette land, bread reigns supreme. Crispy croissants (au chocolat or plain... as you like), crunchy toast biscuits, moist galette cookie cake thingies, and fluffy brioche. Or for the more daring, go straight for the gâteau au chocolat and vanilla cookies... no one's telling! Select from any of these delicacies for your petit dejeuner, which even the word's translation, "little lunch," will have you giggling with delight. 

I forgot to mention the best part... NUTELLA. The greatest invention on earth, this conglomerate of hazelnut, chocolate and artery-clogging palm tree oil is lathered (in large quantities I might add) atop one of the choices above to start the morning off ever so sweetly. If born with a nut-allergy or some rare impairment that makes you somehow NOT like it, there's this other dream called Speculoos, a spread literally made of crushed gingerbread cookies and butter, to prove that God really did put things on this earth worth dying for. Though typically for the morning, these heavenly spreads by no means limit themselves to a.m. appearances: try hazelnut chocolate bars for le goûter, snack time, or Speculoos cookies to accompany coffee breaks (remind me later, once I actually figure out the answer, how the French stay so darn twiggy).

Though a big fan of their breakfast choices, it does strike me as odd how the French go about serving it. In contrast to a previous post detailing the exhaustive list of silverware necessary for a proper evening meal, in the morning it seems that anything goes. By anything goes, I mean everything goes away, including the plates and mugs. I remember arriving to the kitchen of my boyfriend's grandmother one morning to find a lone cereal bowl at my seat. A loaf of brioche with jars of jam and nutella lay arranged at the table's center but no flakes or muesli in sight. Assuming the glass bowl was left there by mistake, I put it away and searched the cupboard for a plate to use instead. No sooner had I done so when his grandmother entered, quickly pulling the plate from in front of me and replacing it with the bowl I had just returned to the shelf.

"Pour cereal?" I asked, picking up the bowl and demonstrating the motion with a spoon. Instead of answering, his grandmother dropped a tea bag inside it.

"Est-ce que tu veux du thé?" she asked, and as I nodded she grabbed the kettle and began pouring steaming water inside.

She smiled and watched as I strugged to hold the brim of the burning bowl between my fingertips, spilling nearly half of it onto the table (and of course, my lap) while attempting to bring it to my lips.

"C'est pas grave!" she chirped, dabbing the spill with a wash cloth then proceeding to toss a piece of bread on the bare, now damp table.

"Ça, le confiture de figue, et l'autre..." she went about explaining the various jams as I stared in confusion at the naked slice exposed to the table without the comforting barrier of a plate, not even a napkin. Heck a paper towel would have sufficed, but directly on the table?

Beginning to think his grandmother may suffer from slight dementia, I smiled and nodded, allowing her to scoop some orangy goo onto the bread before me. My hopes that she would disappear soon so I could at least grab a mug with a handle didn't last when my boyfriend walked in with his cheerful Bonjour.

Drats, I thought, now we'll both burn our fingerprints off.  But like clockwork, he poured himself a bowl of steaming hot tea, simultaneously grabbing the brioche and slicing it directly on the table. Crumbs everywhere, he grabbed his piece and began to layer it with butter and jam, again directly on the table before him. Then dipping a corner into the bowl and taking a bite, he and his grandmother commenced a conversation about the orange tree out back. They did not acknowledge the stunned look on my face, how I intently observed his every move to figure out the whole drinking-out-of-a-boiling-glass-bowl puzzle (apparently, you just wait until the drink cools down a bit before actually drinking it. Who would have thought?).

After the meal, the bowls and knives go in the sink, the spreads and bread in the cupbroad, and an ultimate wipedown of the crumbs takes place (sometimes onto the floor if time allows for a sweeping of the kitchen floor). Volunteering to wash what little dishes the meal produced, a part of me began to appreciate this plate-less practice, especially having spent four years of college without a dishwasher. Yet to this day I still feel a bit, unsettled one could say, when reaching for my tea and finding no handle there. 

Belgium made, sold in France, though Speculoos spotings in California exist

There will always be customs in other cultures that you come to appreciate, and others you never fully understand. While I wouldn't dare attempt to eat bread off a table in my own mother's kitchen, I will certainly risk paying overweight charges for my luggage on my way home next spring by stuffing it full with jars of Nutella and Speculoos.

A Letter to L'il Wayne

Dear L'il Wayne,

I had the joyous opportunity of seeing you perform live in Toulouse, France last Saturday and I must begin by applauding you for one heck of an entertaining evening. While back home I’d likely swap tickets to your show for a pack of gum, I wouldn’t miss the chance to witness a crowd of your non-English speaking, chain-smoking fans for anything in the world.

At least with a half-full concert I got to get up close n' personal!

It was well worth the wait, after your poetic opener Mac Miller, to stand in the half-full concert hall for an hour in the toxic fumes of my fellow rap lovers for you to then come on and do a 40 minute show. Whoever said 'big things come in small packages' must certainly have seen you perform live, because the price was indeed big.

I will be honest; other than admiring your genius use of abbreviation in A Milli, or the symbolic representations in “lick me like a lollipop,” I admit that I am not very well-versed in your repertoire. Therefore, I sincerely appreciate that you simplified your lyrics to the words  'f*** y’all,' ‘b****’, 'p****' and 'n*****,' chanting them repeatedly so that new fans like me can easily follow along. A brilliant strategy I must say, for the foreign crowds especially, teaching them English through song in a fast-paced yet manageable way.

About that last word I mentioned. You know the one I'm talking about. At least the Frenchies certainly know it because they showed no shame in exclaiming it, like a children's sing-along, in the same repetitive, audacious manner as you did. I am curious to know how you feel about their open expression of this taboo word. Perhaps they are not quite as globally aware, their brains so full with pastries and cheese. Do not hold it against them.... their accents are quite adorable. I, on the other hand, a fellow American born in a nation or no prejudice or racial divide, could not bring myself to echo such words that could potentially connote racial slurs. Therefore please understand, Mr. Carter, that my choosing not to sing this word found in nearly every line in every song, was a sign of respect rather than complete bewilderment that I actually live in a world where such songs could possibly top the charts.

Dear petit Weezy, you may have noticed a lack of energy in the crowd. This, I can assure you, has nothing to do with your skills as an artist, but rather serves as a demonstration of 'The French Way.' When you said 'Jump!' and nobody jumped, it was not that they didn't want to but rather it is not customary for them to do so. When you shouted 'put yo hands in the air' and everyone simply took photos on their phones, they merely intended to express their approval of your words and actions. And when you asked "if anyone who's out there came here tonight with their homeboys say yyyeeeaaahhhh" and no one responded 'yeah'... well perhaps just try slowing down and enunciating.

Although the entirety of the show proved overwhelmingly loud, I can recall two favorite moments. First, during the ten minute intermission while you changed aka just took off your shirt, the DJ played snipets of all your legit features in tunes ("Swagga Like Us," "Mrs. Officer," "Soldier") which brought me back to my youthful teen years blasting them in my minivan on the way to school.  The other greatest moment, I remember very clearly, occured when you finished your last song. You ran off stage, the lights blared on, and the cleanup crew went right to work, saving the audience from the anticipation of an encore. And what better way to end than a cigarette burn from the guy to my right who, kudos to him, managed to finished 6 drags throughout the smoke-free concert. Rather than yell with rage, however, I smile, thanking him for the scathed mark on my forearm that will serve as a permanent souvenir of the night and a reminder as to why I tend to skip concerts with artists who sing "Ask dem hoes about me" and "I feel like f****** sumthin."

XOXO,

Ashley



P.S. Props to the lighting and design crew... the display actually looked really legit!

P.P.S. Forty minutes.... seriously man?

Romania Part Two: Twilight Ain't got Nothin on this Bad Boy

The thing taking the longest to adjust to since my European installment is trying to decipher this whole 'celcius' thing. I've gotten a pretty good grasp on meters from running track, and I learned kilograms pretty quick as a kid when my Japanese aunt would have me weigh myself to report how many more I should lose. But something about attempting to figure out the weather in celcius just makes me want to vomit. I admit, the fabulous Fahrenheit isn't very useful outside the home of the brave, but still, Ray Bradbury said it right when he wrote, “If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you'll never learn.” But I digress.

Celcius or not, getting off the 90 minute train from Bucharest to Sinaia, Romania, the degrees dropped like it's NOT hawt. At all. In fact, freezin' ma buns off cold. Apparently this whole temperature dropping thing happens in every mountain range, but I'm from Chicago, so it blew my mind to need to change from tank to fleece when traveling for less than the time of a full-length movie.

Sinaia Castle

Luckily, a pretty, pretty castle awaited at the top to make me feel like a princess again under my three layers of cardigans and the other ill-suited articles of clothing I packed. I've seen many a castle and church and temple and monument and cheeses that would knock your socks off by the smell, but this hunk of glory was the most beautiful thing I've seen, the prettiest girl at the ball. With mountains and streams in the backdrop, the sounds of chirping birds and French tourists complaining about the weather, it was literally like falling into the storybook of Beauty and the Beast (Gaston oh he's so cute!) Apparently this shining property was just one of dozens owned by Charles I, the first king of Romania, but clearly he would have passed around invites to this crib for show and tell.

Hot tea in our hands, Georgia on our minds, Alla and I get back on the train up to Brasov, a cutsy little town in the region of Transylvania. Contrary to its ridiculous sounding name, Transylvania is an actual place, a region with a rich history involving Hungarian war lords and the Ottoman Empire. But the only reason we've actually heard of the darn place is not because of our European History professors (though you did a fine job, Mr. Phillips!) but rather some Irish bloke by the name of Bram Stoker.

Bran Castle

With no particular roots in Romania himself, the writer of Dracula still managed to turn some random structure in the woods into the country's most visited tourist attraction (actually we can thank the film directors for that).  Like the nerdy older sister who never got asked to prom, Bran Castle (about 30 minutes from Brasov) cannot compare in looks to her charming sibling we visited back in Sinaia. Yet perhaps it's the mystery behind this dark enchantress that gives it so much appeal. The stone structure with rustic circular roofs concealed by shady trees, cold pale walls marked by wont and decay, and stairwells leading every which way into hidden chambers, leading further to your slow and painful DEATH.  

Bahaha okay that's enough. But whether you're Team Edward or Team Jacob, you'll still get a kick out of these fun facts learned from the tall, dark and handsome tour guide for the group of British senior citizens I tagged along:

• The name Dracula derives from Dracul, which means the Devil. Dracula therefore connotes the Devil's Son.
• Stoker likely drew inspiration for Count Dracula from a man named Vlad the Impaler, a duke back in the day who, as one can gather from his name, prefered torture and excruciating deaths over blueberry scones.
• This Vlad dude also happened to be a member of the Order of the Dragon (take that, Phoenix!), its symbol a dragon practically choking itself with its own tail. Dragon. Dracul. Things are beginning to click.



Brasov, Romania

• Hey fellow feminist! Turns out a woman actually spured some creative energy for our blood thirsty vampire: 16th century countess Elizabeth Bathorym, best known for murdering dozens if not hundreds of young women and girls, would bathe in her victims' blood to soak in that rejuvenating virgin blood. Hmmmm.
• The tour guide was not happy to see me sneaking into his group.

Though one can never feel Vampired-Out, it did feel nice after the excellent tour to descend the castle's hill for a Kürtös Kalács, basically a tube of hot stove-cooked dough sprinkled in sugar and nuts. Off the chain amazing by itself, though imagine stuffing scoops of Ben & Jerry's into that little sucker. Oh boy.

The rest of Brasov presented to us a gorgeous church (blackened from a fire centuries ago) a history of political divide (mainly between the Ottomans, Saxons and later the Communists), and a cute little market where I found this gem:

 

If you've never seen Up, don't read my blog. Just Kidding! But go watch it NOW!

Handmade, Leather-bound, and likely exceeding the Ryan Air baggabe weight restrictions, I cannot wait to fill it with all the photos and stories I've gathered thus far!

Romania Part 1: hubba-hubba, Bucharest!

Let me tell you a few things about Romania.

To Americans, Romanians wear sparkly leotards and spread eagle on bars and balance beams. To other Europeans, however, Romanians often get a bad rep for living a gypsy lifestyle, traveling around begging and scamming to avoid any real work. While truth beholds that some of these people scam, that some beg, that a few do win Olympic medals, I've had the good fortune of seeing another side of this country and its people that instead involves arched eyebrows, enchanted castles and food deals that could send Subway out of business.

Romania is home to two important people: 1) Dracula, allowing me to shrill "I've come to suck your blood!" around every corner, and 2) my friend Alla, giving me someone to hiss it at. I met Alla last year in my French class, though from day one we've communicated in English because a) my French sucks and b) her English itself makes for conversation. Like many other Europeans I've met, she learned to perfect her Anglais via various languages sources such as rap videos on MTV, beauty tutorials on YouTube and streaming reruns of House and Prison Break. I am always so impressed when phrases like 'riding dirty' or 'it's not Lupus' flow naturally in her speech, as well as her unfathomable expertise on American pop culture (what exactly IS a hollaback girl, I dared to ask her during our trip).

Alla picks me up from the airport and we bus through Bucharest, during which I begin asking the millions of questions building up in my head such as 'what's with the high-heelin' hoochies with magna-arched eyebrows?' 'Where are the vampires?' 'When can we eat?' (She answers the first by explaining a particular fashion style that certain women portray called pitzipoanks, which translates to sluts. She rolls her eyes for the other two).

Romania introduces me to Eastern European territory, and en route to the city center I cannot help but notice the marks of communism (ha, get it?!) still affluent, or rather destitute, in the passing buildings. While the term 'Communist architecture' came up before during a tour of Berlin, here it still stands without telling. Tall, grey, rigid structures efficiently

The big bad Palace of the Romanian Parliament

built to hold a warehouse of people, minus any glamour or aesthetic appeal whatsoever. The lack of distinguishable variety or color set a dull, rather weary ambiance that would make a perfect shooting location for the Are you Afraid of the Dark? series. At this point I can't tell if vampire jokes are appropriate or not, but decide to bite Alla's shoulder anyways.
  
Downtown Bucharest itself strikes a stark contrast to the
outside boroughs, the influences of Roman culture highly prevalent in the large, elegant structures built with columns, domes and aristocratic statues. The majority of these fabulous edifices house the only institutions that can afford them, banks, though some host less fangy sites such as the excellent National Museum of Art and the Peasant Museum. And if you really want to see a hunk of a building, head over to the Palace of the Romanian Parliament. Stare deeply at the world's heaviest building (literally!), and I dare you NOT to make comparisons to the evil plottings a happenin' in the Ministry of Magic.  


As any European city, a visit through the major sites includes at least one church, though unlike the excessive glitz of the Catholic churches found elsewhere, the Orthodox sanctuaries here have a more modest appearance. "To be Romanian is to be Orthodox," explains Alla as she and every other passerby crosses themselves in front of the building whether or not they go inside. Every church has the same 3-part structure (a writer's

Romanian Monastery

dream!): a small, covered section up front for priests, a larger middle area where women stand behind the men and children, and finally a small boxed area in back for those women 'infected with the blood of sin,' aka those on 'that time of the month' (what better way to tell the fellers' they ain't gettin any tonight!). While this sexist division is unlikely still practiced anywhere except for maybe the Romanian boonies, the Rosa Parks in me proudly remains up front to enjoy the chants of the choir singers (The WHAT in me? Please ignore that last part). 


I forgot to mention the best part: Romania = CHEAP. Hold on to y'er hats n' glasses, cuz the prices here will blow yee away! At the patiseries above every subway station, hot flaky pastries and soft pretzels await your grumbling bellies for 1-2 lei a pop, equivalent to about 35cents (and believe me, you'll be stuffed after three!). The two nights

sărmăluţe

in a local boarding house cost us each 3€/night, though we had to pay an extra 5cents for toilet paper. We dined at the famous  Caru' cu Bere (Beer Carriage), gorging ourselves on the Romanian specialty sărmăluţe (minced meat rolled in wine leaves served with polenta and sour cream), and finishing off with a papanasi each (monster donuts of sweet cheese and cream) all for less than 20€. We danced the night away on $3 cocktails at bars where everyone resembled Victor Krum and his classmates at Durmstrang Academy (okay, enough with the Potter references!) and finished the night with an 11 lei taxi ride home, costing less than the fare to just get in a cab in Chicago. 

In my short time in Bucharest, I managed to learn about the country's gold mining politics and check off Protest for a Cause in Romania off my Things to Do Before I DIE list. Still, two days felt excruciatingly short. Yet I am ever the more antsy pantsy for the second half on my Romanian adventure to the dungeons and dragons of the man who, wait for it.. wait for it... will "come to suck your BLOOD!"

Where Do Milano Cookies Come From?*

The next few posts will venture away from French fry land and instead chronicle my exciting trip east, my first time in Eastern Europe. Three snaps for me for exploring 5 cities in 4 countries, taking a total of 5 planes, 3 regional trains, 2 coach buses and 10 nights in hostels all for 300 euros (this, of course, not including spending money and FOOD costs, which with me sadly doubles it).

First stop, mainly for the convenient airport layover... Milan. Though less than 20 hours weakens my chances of meeting my lover boy KaKa (you hear me, AC Milan fans!), I still can steal a glimpse at the European fashion mecca.

Alright. Milan.

It's pouring. Damn. While waiting for the rain to cut it out, I make my way through the central train station to get the first thing on the agenda... Gelato. Shivering yet high on creamy swirls of pistachio and chocolate, I parooze through the many clothing stores, imagining how I'd look in this leather jacket or that fur hat. Able to afford none of it, I decide to go to my hostel. My worries about the pitter patter quickly vanish the moment I step out when hundreds of umbrellas dangle in my face. Of any country I've visited, Italy wins the prize for most street peddlers selling cheap crap. Clutching umbrellas, trinkets, puddy, you name it, they await their prey at touristy spots and shout at you in what they believe to be your mother tongue. Very Nice Price! Buen Precio! Günstigen Preis! I settle on a 5€ one (the next guy was selling them for 4€... drats!)

The woman at the hostel resembling Janice from Friends tells me the room "no finish." I am quite familiar with this Italian tardiness; while other Europeans may apologize for the delay, she simply shrugs her shoulders as to say 'well what did you expect?' Another fun fact: Italians love surprises, the kind that make you pay more. The hostel I booked online said 15€, but with adding in the 'tourist tax' plus the extra 3€ for linen, the price no longer feels so right. Add to this the pleasant surprise of finding two French lesbians spooning in the bed that should be mine (why can't I ever escape the French?!) and I understand the establishment's mere 54% rating on hostelbookers.com.           

Doumo, the Magnificent!

With no city maps available (Janice did kindly offer one of her cigarettes as consolation), I creepily followed other tourists to get to the famous Doumo. A master piece of a church, with an incredible view of the city from the roof (sadly it had already closed for the night). More street sellers do their thang in the church's piazza, though this time more creatively than umbrellas... They place corn kernels in the hands of ignorant tourists so pigeons flock AT them, resting on their shoulders and stabbing at their hands and feet. In return for this bird rape, they expect a 5€ bill. Uh... No thank you.

By this point the rain is pouring so hard that I must settle for a cafe panini rather than continue on to an aperitivo that offers complimentary buffets with a cocktail purchase. But don't get me wrong, when I say 'settled' on a panini, I mean a mouth-watering concoction of grilled zucchini, ricotta cheese and prosciutto in a crispy flatbread followed by a second helping of gelato (what, it was only 2€... very nice price!). I take the underground back to the hostel and chit chat about the Big Bang Theory with Janice before heading to my room (thankfully the French amoureux have gone out for the night).

I leave around 8 the next morning to head to the Bergamo airport (the French girls have yet to return). I assumed going to the gate would be easy breezy (aside from layering on all my packed clothes to meet the WizzAir cabin baggage restrictions). Turns out to be the most gruesome passport questioning to date. True, my little blue book does resemble a first year teacher's lesson plans, with visas and stamps and security check stickers haphazardly scattered throughout. Yet i naively assumed that the perched eagle and lines "We The People" on the first page automatically allowed me entry wherever I so pleased, no questions asked (isn't that like the 5th amendment or something?). Yet for 3 whole minutes the border control officer grilled me in an aggressive Italian accent "Where you come from? Why you go to Romania? Where you stay? How long? Why you here? You work? What you do? Why these days? I don't see entry stamp. Why you here?" What a relief to finally get the stamp. I cannot even imagine the stress of those coming from other countries who must face a thousand times the scrutiny every time they try to visit Europe or the U.S., let alone leave their own country.

My pits fuming from both the interrogation and the 4 layers of shirts, I now await my plane, fanning myself with my ticket and imagining what questioning I'll face at my next destination: Romania.




*Milano Cookies are an American invention by Pepperidge Farms in an attempt to sound posh. It's the taste that counts, right?

Waiting Tables, Restaurants, and Cigarettes: A Sonata in 3 Parts

A. Waiting Tables

If you or a friend has ever worked in the restaurant/hospitality business, you know how much it sucks when people don`t leave a deserving tip (or so I`ve heard, speaking as that stingy asian who never gives a cent above 15%). Serving tables is tough work in the US! But consider this: rather than succumbing to displaying your yonkers or smiling `til your jaw snaps, I've found a simpler solution to earn your fair pay... work as a waitress/waiter in France!

The advantages of waiting tables in a bistro abroad far outweigh whatever plane costs and visa issues you may encounter if seriously pursuing this plan. See for yourself:

The Perks of Waitressing in France

Can I have some cheese with that wine?

1) Get paid an hourly wage. And often not a bad one, either. Europe does not share the same tipping culture as America, so your paycheck will surmount to the same whether or not you bend & snap. And often times customers, mainly men who don't like jingly change in their pockets, still leave tips anyway (and believe me, each 2euro coin left on the table  really adds up!) Not to mention that waiters get the same health benefits as anyone else, which I'll explain in a future post.

2) Work stress-free. Knowing that the paycheck stays the same whether you serve 25 tables a night or only 3, waiters can work at their own, leisurely pace. Would you like a refill, sir? Let me bring it to you in 10 minutes. À toute suite!

3) Work outside. Pretty much all cafés and many restaurants have an outside terrace, so work that tan while you work that platter!

4) No doggy bags. Taking home unfinished food is a big non non in France, which means no fuss over finding the right sized-boxes and scooping up half-eaten lasagna. Just dump those plates straight in the bin!

As you can see, the lifestyle of waiters in France quite closely resembles that of the rich & famous (or at least according to Good Charlotte). But as all good things must come to an end, the pleasures of working in restaurants do not quite cross over to the people who eat at them.

B. Eating at Restaurants

What a Happy Waiting Staff Means for Everyone Else

(aka not good news)

1) Food is Ex-Pen-Sive! Good luck finding somewhere to eat under 25 euros (and don't forget the extra charges they force you to pay for bread and, don't scream, H20.) Plus, one still feels obligated to tip anyway after watching the waitress bring and clear away plates for two hours, so a night out ends up costing half a month's paycheck.

2) Service is a zero. On the plus side, no one gets annoyed at the interrupting waiter offering more water every 5 minutes. On the negative, if you actually need that refill, you're screwed. In France, waitresses take their sweet-ass time. They could care less if you can't read the menu or if your vegetarian sister accidentally received the salade de gesiers (duck gizzards) rather than de Roquefort (blue cheese). If they're on one of a dozen smoke breaks, she's gonna have to wait.

3) Eat Outside. A good thing all around, as long as you don't mind the smell of smoke or dog poo.

4) No doggy bags. Those who've had the pleasure of dining at Maggiano's can empathize. Imagine my utter heartbreak of discovering the cruel, sadistic custom in France of not bringing home leftovers. Down right Anarchy!! Why, my family only eats out for the soul joy of finding Styrofoam box presents in the fridge the next evening. Yet according to the French, leftovers connote weakness (or more likely a lack of sophistication). You either suck it up and finish your plate, or let those crispy 8 euro-each frog legs go to waste. Quite a sad dilemma, considering how delicious the food tastes yet how badly you've resisted overeating in order to fit in those Parisian skinny jeans.

As you can see, eating out in France quite closely resembles paying for the mortgage of a house that you can't afford. Suddenly a whopper doesn't sound all that bad.

C. Cigarettes

I will conclude this debate between feeder and eater with a seemingly unrelated yet completely intertwined topic.... cigarettes. Perhaps I'm paranoid of second-hand smoke, or maybe the fumes of the dude puffing à côté de moi have gotten to my brain and keyboard, but something must be said (and in my opinion, done) about the smoking habits here. The average Francophone youth cannot even sit for one meal without getting up twice for a drag. Each time I arrive to soccer practice, I squint my eyes (more than naturally) to find the entrance gate behind the clouds of smoke dispersed by fellow teammates. And don't even bother wearing perfume when you sortir... every bar forces on you a free trial of their latest line, tabacco spice. I'm not saying all Americans learned their lessons back in Junior High school D.A.R.E. class, but it's as if people are not even aware of any possible health risks of the reef.

 CODA
Anyone who understand music knows that the coda ties back together  the seemingly incongruent parts A, B, and C* (*this is not true). But this time, I'll leave it up to you to draw the connections, as I literally cannot sit at this café for a minute longer. My advice? Those coming to frenchy-land can choose one of three possible paths:

1) Work as a waitress in France, have a good life, smoke cigarettes;
2) Eat at a French restaurant, go broke with no leftovers to show for it, smoke cigarettes instead; or
3) Live off baguettes and cheese from the supermarché…. and just don't smoke cigarettes.

(answer in bold)

A La Mode: Eating the French Way

As we déjeuner to rabbit pâté aside steaming lamb chops and

deliciously brewed haricots blancs, (white beans), the boyfriend's grandfather shakes his head in utmost embarrassment. 

"Like animals we are, eating this way. But with lamb chops.. What can we do?" (This, all in French of course). 

He was referring to the fact that rather than eating properly, using forks and knives, he had to grab the lamb bone with his fingers and directly eat the meat, dare I say, with his bare hands!

"At least we do not have company," la grand-mère sighs with relief.

This is a culture that uses utensils for literally everything: pizza with fork and knife; French fries by means of fork and knife; ice cream in a cone... eaten with a spoon no doubt. Only slobs bite straight into a slice of melon; we all know it's more practical to first slice off the skin, then delicately cut it into bite size portions to then nibble with silverware. And I hate to be obvious, but coke can NEVER be consumed straight from the can... that's what tall glassware was created for, you unsophisticated schmucks!

Not to mention the extensiveness of table assembly when it comes to platter. A family of three needs to run the dishwasher after every meal in order to keep up with proper feasting etiquette. A mini glass for l'aperitif (a pre-meal shot of booze), alongside two glasses, one for wine, the other for water (and possibly a third if you're toasting with champagne). A bowl for soup, a plate for les éntres (appetizers) and salads, a separate for the plat (the meal) plus another for dessert. There is the cuillère de soupe (soup spoon) followed by the salad fork, the meal fork, the knife to cut the steak, the knife to slice the cheese, a spoon for dessert, and finally a cuillère de café to stir the sugar in your espresso shot. This is on top of the casserole dishes and salad bowls and bread baskets and serving spoons and pots and pans placed a center to dish out family style. It is one individual's role to get up and clear each set of plates and utensils while the others sit around and emerse in a two hour occasion of palatable pleasantries. Followed by a well-deserved two hour nap.

Believe me, adapting to these strenuous table manners is no easy task, especially when coming from a KFC-ridden suburb best known for having a Medieval Times. Then again, once you've grown accustomed to slicing up fries into cute little pieces, even a rendezvous to Mickey D's becomes a grandiose affair.

CAKE!!!!

So.... cakes.

 

Yes cakes, not just because it’s my birthday, which gives me the right to be eating it at 8:30am while compiling a ‘meaningful’ blog post to make up for the last 3 dry months on this page. But truthfully, cake is an essential part of cultures around the world, celebrating all occasions in ranging flavors to satisfyingly comfort every sweet tooth and emotion. Plus, who could say no to a slice of butter and sugar in sponge-form, garbed in orange zest cream cheese frosting?

Good, now I have the attention of your clammy tongues salivating for glucosic goodies. Let’s examine the cake traditions of France, where boulangeries and patisseries equate the American Walgreens by claiming every street corner. If each morning is a chocolate croissant for a ‘mmm-mmm’ buttery breakfast, one can’t even begin to fathom how heavenly an actual ‘dessert’ would be. And for the most part, I’ll admit, they do not disappoint. Staying on topic, here’s a mini bibliography of some of the cakes I’ve had the palatable pleasure of tasting this past month:

1.     Bûche de Noël

What it means: Christmas log  

What it looks like: Basically a log cake that looks very much like a log, the cheaper ones a turd, sprinkled with powdered sugar and random plastic evergreens.  Cut it open to find creamy custard and sponge cake in swirls of psychedelic love. 
What it tastes like: AWESOME.

Tradition: You eat it on Christmas. Duh.
Thoughts: Don’t be disappointed by the puniness of these sticks… with all that cream and butter, one slice’ll get your heart pumpin’.
2.     Galette des Rois

What it means: Cake of Kings

What it looks like: Kind of like a big ass flaky omelette. With crusty white almond paste inside.
What it taste like: Wayyy better than that description. 
Tradition: To celebrate King’s Day, January 6^th. Somewhere inside this bad boy is a little feve, or figurine, and who ever is lucky enough to break their teeth biting it gets to wear a BK crown for the day.
Thoughts: I got the crown this year. Well worth the toothache.
3.      Couronne Briochée 
What it means: Crown bread thingy
What it looks like: A donut on steroids, decorated with fruit-cake tackiness.
What it tastes like: A donut on steroids.
Tradition: Also for Kings Day. Basically, the inventor of the cake above copyrighted the cooler name, so to compete, the dude from this bakery decided to make his look like a crown.
Thoughts: where’s the cream filling?

French cakes are, in essence, three things: 1. Decorative elements of religious or traditional celebrations; 2. Rich, but not overly sweet, with more or less natural flavors and simplistic decorations; 3. Filled with butter.

So enough with the Gordon Ramsay commentary… what’s the point of all this cake talk? Well, as satiating as these francophone delicacies might be, there still comes a day in every person’s living abroad experience where one reaches a deep revelation: where the hell is my red velvet cake?!

If you think sincerely about it, (which I do), my American favorite goes against everything French: 1) It’s anything but natural, obnoxiously fire-engine red with the main ingredients being shortening and buttermilk; 2) It’s excessive, a minimum of 3 layers glued together by thick cream cheese frosting to further glaze the already sugar infused-monster; and 3) It’s 100% American, featured on every food network show, in every trendy cupcake salon, and in many of my family photos from college, where one simple slice brought to my dorm room could magically disintegrate all the stress from midterm exams. I guess in a way, what makes a cake so great is not just the taste, but rather the occasion to share it with others. If I were to be sentimental about it (which I am), cake is about the celebratory experience as a whole, instead of the sum of its parts (which, if added up, equals too many hours at the gym).  

So, in respect to both new favorites and old time classics, and in honor of my 23^rd anniversary of birth, I’ve decided to indulge in both: a briochée for breakfast, homemade velvet for tonight, and maybe, upon my afternoon stroll past the corner patisserie, another sugary surprise. Just because it’s my birthday.