Budapest

In what has come as a great surprise to me, and no doubt the rest, it turns out there is quantifiable evidence that I am NOT the smartest person in the history of ever. In fact, apparently, it turns out I am completely average. I would have bet on the Bills winning the Super Bowl before me getting a better grade in Legal Writing than Contracts (and I didn't get a great grade in Legal Writing). Well, as they say, "When at first you don't succeed, lower your standards." According to the law school, I should be thrilled to string together polysyllabic words without drooling. Which I am...

For those who have stayed with me so far, I feel now is time for clarification. I am by no means a pessimist; indeed, far from it. I'm actually a cynic. According to my father, who with his quantifiable proof (2 PhDs) might be the smartest person in the history of ever now that my title is up for grabs, a cynic is a romantic who knows the world's going to let him down. That pretty much sums me up. I certainly hope for the best, even when I prepare for the worst.

The following snippet, from the poem I posted at the end of each of my exams (average...pshaw!), hits the nail on the head:

From "Terrence, This Is Stupid Stuff" by A.E. Houseman

Therefore, while the world has still

much good, but much less good than ill,

and while the sun and moon endure

luck's a chance but trouble's sure,

I'd face it as a wise man would

and train for ill and not for good.

So, yes, I have learned to treat bad times as adventures instead of misfortunes, but that doesn't really mean that I therefore reject pleasures or happy times, no matter my bombastic claims to the contrary. I always hope to have a good time and, since I prepare to meet the adversity that chance throws my way, I generally do so.

All that being said, pleasant times and happiness do not a good story make, as stated before, so rest assured that this most unreliable narrator will continue in his quest to entertain, even if it means playing the part of the carmudgeon. Therefore...

I cut Vienna short because I didn`t want to ruin my perfect experience and I discovered I'm running a bit tight on time as far as getting to Rome on Christmas Eve day. One zesty jaunt from the hostel, which I now believe it was, to the train station later, and I was off to Budapest.

I realized I was live without a net since I speak ZERO hungarian. No polite words, no way to say I don't speak Hungarian, no way to order beer. Pointing, grunting and smiling will have to do. When the Hungarian border patrol asked to see my passport, I put two and two together and got it out, but I also accidently grabbed a hundred euro bill when I did so (both being in my necklace pouch) and thus looked like I was trying to bribe him. He looked at me very oddly as I snatched back the money and turned red.

Fortunately, right as we were getting into the station a hostel representative, who rides the last segment of trains into the city to catch tourists, offered to get me a cheap place to stay. Feeling very wary because of my inability to understand anything and being so dependent, I agreed to follow him, but made sure to tuck a credit card where I hoped they wouldn't find it when I got mugged. I also got the knife ready.

He was on the level, it appeared, as he got me a shuttle to the hostel. The drive was pleasantly terrifying as the young teenage driver drove in the tram lanes, swerved into oncoming traffic from time to time, and cut off great swaths of traffic at a time. I've never seen anyone else turn right when they were in the outermost lane of a four lane road. He's missing his calling as a getaway driver. Or maybe that's his day job.

As for the city, I did the requisite hiking around and even took a tour boat ride on the Danube. It was all pretty standard sightseeing, to be honest, and thus not worthy of mention, save for my experience at the St. Stephen's Basilica.

It didn't quite register when I first entered that there was singing. In fact, it was only when the singing stopped did I realize it had been there. That is not to say that it was run of the mill, not by any means. It had just seemed so appropriate that I couldn't fathom being there without it. It turned out I was there for a rehearsal of a girls choir who apparently would be making a performance for Christmas. Their choirmaster had only stopped momentarily to berate them and they started once more.

As their angelic voices strove with each other, complementing, rising, softening, soaring, reverberating in all the nooks, crannies, and alcoves of the basilica, I stood rapt. The beauty of that moment was such that I was nearly driven to tears. I assure you that is not hyperbole. Words cannot express how powerful it was. It was easily the strongest emotional, as well as religious, experience I've had in years.

But on to ligher matters...

Last night, I had an amusing back and forth with a waiter. I ordered a Budweiser Budvar, the famous Czech beer. He condescendingly informed me, "It's not the American one."

"No [poop]. This one tastes good."

Apparently, my penchant for sleeping in my tidy-whities sent the vast majority of my hostel mates fleeing into other rooms, which was my goal from the start. Except for one Mexican. I slept with one eye open and the knife under the pillow.

This morning, he struck up a conversation with me as I was packing out. I mangled the Spanish language a bit, explaining to him that I tend to jumble up the fragments of the Spanish, Italian, French, and Latin I know into the indecipherable language of Splatalench. He tried to coax me on a bit with the Spanish and I gamely tried, but to middling success. It was only as I went to leave that he geared it up an extra level.

I swear he asked me where the prostitutes where and how much they cost, as I know I heard some variation of the word prostitute and "cuenta". When I said, "Que?" and he said whatever it was again even faster, that pretty much sealed it. "Um...No se?" He came over and shook my hand as I left, which I thought was a mighty decent thing for him to do for a man who wouldn't spill the beans on hookers.