tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330179402024-03-12T20:08:04.235-07:00BudablogBudapest and beyond...Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-30298382176641777202008-06-30T11:54:00.000-07:002008-07-02T00:23:57.200-07:00Return to Tooth Town<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfX8E3UoNLjlCBXW657sGXlfAq6CCXnPPo6o8jgcYKILuB16FRxoWZrDUB0DVCNhecCVLyQtU6PXeNlDlKoqN4LqhcXWE3SfzmYzsxKGfPrRNI1ViA6IECW2fj-PO4qBYN688VWQ/s1600-h/toothy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfX8E3UoNLjlCBXW657sGXlfAq6CCXnPPo6o8jgcYKILuB16FRxoWZrDUB0DVCNhecCVLyQtU6PXeNlDlKoqN4LqhcXWE3SfzmYzsxKGfPrRNI1ViA6IECW2fj-PO4qBYN688VWQ/s400/toothy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217750036941023810" /></a><br />(That's one healthy tooth.)Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-27097194730015925722008-06-29T14:09:00.000-07:002008-06-29T15:03:16.994-07:00Here Be MonstersYesterday we visited our friends Nikola and Fanni. Nikola is a playwright-novelist-poet-writer from Croatia. Since we're going on vacation in Croatia next week he drew us a map: <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVp34opyS5I18RMkFLxqQ7-GgS9Xd1szKq6cxwtcF4X6aaWSVGv4acvp4tpeACCYL9yjrbvL9kksIfSO0r1llZXS9pGaBuxTA4GGNpqnftoWs-oHfQZRvPyA4bI9rrRROLkkN8w/s1600-h/CROATIA+MAP.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVp34opyS5I18RMkFLxqQ7-GgS9Xd1szKq6cxwtcF4X6aaWSVGv4acvp4tpeACCYL9yjrbvL9kksIfSO0r1llZXS9pGaBuxTA4GGNpqnftoWs-oHfQZRvPyA4bI9rrRROLkkN8w/s400/CROATIA+MAP.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217414065231592306" /></a><br />Nikola waxed poetic about the beauties of Croatia, which he loves but has a complicated relationship with (Nikola hates all borders. "Have you ever seen such a country? Shaped like a fucking pretzel.") But somehow all his tales of gorgeous beach holidays slowly morphed into <i>The Hills Have Eyes</i> horror stories. A simple off-trail hike around Susak became a day-long death march. Expecting a quick stroll around the tiny island they only brought a bottle of wine and half a loaf of bread. No water, no sneakers, no directions, no roads. And they soon discovered ... well, take a closer look. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgXhs1EranYaKAvGOfck8SsRpLeRnytEULltr08o3EJw8kjU5JufhZkktbxrIM0p4cOWO_vjEY9pw3MEjrFfpkSRoYrWq-zezzjaeqK9x8KyZwmKylUoTb7V24sRnOuDNBgwKWg/s1600-h/islandofdeath.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgXhs1EranYaKAvGOfck8SsRpLeRnytEULltr08o3EJw8kjU5JufhZkktbxrIM0p4cOWO_vjEY9pw3MEjrFfpkSRoYrWq-zezzjaeqK9x8KyZwmKylUoTb7V24sRnOuDNBgwKWg/s400/islandofdeath.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217414071520163842" /></a><br />In case you can't read Nikola's handwriting, the notes in order from left to right say: <br />1. No More Wine Point<br />2. I Wanna Die<br />3. Knife Rocks<br />4. Inbred Fisherman<br /><br />According to Nikola, the people on this island mistrust all of their neighbors, and have intermarried strictly among themselves for centuries ("Their motto is 'We Save the Blood.' That's why they've got the short little freak legs, you know?") He claims that a bunch of Susak islanders migrated to Pittsburgh, where they all now live on one block and continue to Save the Blood.<br /><br />Then there was his story about the beautiful canyon that turned out to be a...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCa9Xdg-Zd58q-aZhAlwQVPiyc4Le8qM8IHEr1oqkljKF6rTDsjefY_Yb58EsNEyh7V94H9eywgp5d3YmgRTyc6gcp8L-RVxM5PjAopAqF5scKr40vLQxe6T9I8sSUf58FvCdzBw/s1600-h/snakes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCa9Xdg-Zd58q-aZhAlwQVPiyc4Le8qM8IHEr1oqkljKF6rTDsjefY_Yb58EsNEyh7V94H9eywgp5d3YmgRTyc6gcp8L-RVxM5PjAopAqF5scKr40vLQxe6T9I8sSUf58FvCdzBw/s400/snakes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217414070020397890" /></a><br />... snake pit full of incredibly poisonous jumping snakes that live in trees and prey on unsuspecting hikers at night. ("The snakes with the horns ... we call them a 'snake snake.' You know it? If it bites you, you have maximum one hour to live. Completely fucked.") Other terrors noted on the map include black widows and giant vultures. <br /><br />Maybe we should go straight to Sarajevo ...Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-87271230338414325182008-06-25T05:49:00.000-07:002008-06-25T06:06:36.441-07:00Two Deals with the Devil<b>Faust<br />Directed by Silviu Purcarete <br />For Teatrul National Radu Stanca in Sibiu, Romania. </b><br /><br />Faust was staged in a warehouse in Sibiu, one of the prettiest towns in Transylvania. Sibiu was built by medieval Germans (Swabians), and its historic center looks like a fairy tale illustration. It was magical to see <i>Faust</i> here. Sibiu’s old town was projected in the windows of Faust’s study, a reminder of the city’s medieval past and the story’s modern-day relevance. <br /><br />Talk about total theater. There’s only one word for this production: Fantastaspectaculomongogantic. The cast was roughly 80 strong. The live original musical score used two full choirs (one of them made solely of children) and a rock band. Dancers, children, puppets, fire-blowers, pyrotechnics, animals, exhausted stagehands – just imagining what it takes to produce a spectacle that size gives me acid reflux. <br /><br />The design was gorgeous. The foreground of Faust’s large, decaying study was dominated by scholarly junk – a partial skeleton on a stand, a model of the digestive system, a stuffed rabbit standing on its hind legs, hunted by a stuffed fox. It made me miss my buddies at <a href="http://curiousexpeditions.org/">Curious Expeditions</a>. The production was full of these kinds of obsessive details. <br /><br />Despite the show’s epic proportions, the bald, potbellied Faust and tiny, twisted Mephistopheles (played by a snow-white woman in men’s clothing) dominated the action. Both gave incredibly intense, alive, physical performances. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8icIs7_pqESwARBy_MAldAZPpi7rzcVXeX2WKUWs6_dHhhlQdV7XPpdLyCYk70e0abRdPkGJ1pnql0tO84FzHoibdhgf_JRdXeIMBS797QMJkZ2sZsOEPDAVqIoIJTfppVfjYHA/s1600-h/06_cronica1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8icIs7_pqESwARBy_MAldAZPpi7rzcVXeX2WKUWs6_dHhhlQdV7XPpdLyCYk70e0abRdPkGJ1pnql0tO84FzHoibdhgf_JRdXeIMBS797QMJkZ2sZsOEPDAVqIoIJTfppVfjYHA/s320/06_cronica1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215801085531713906" /></a><br /><i>Ilie Gheorghe (Faust) and Ofelia Popii (Mefisto)</i><br /><br />I don’t speak Romanian, but it was clear Goethe’s play had been heavily adapted, streamlined to focus on the relationship between Faust and Mephistopheles. Marguerite/Gretchen appears, but Martha is gone, along with Siebel, Wagner, and many of the story’s other secondary characters. Still, I was able to follow the adapted story perfectly, thanks to Purcarete’s visceral images. To name just a few:<br /><br />- As Faust summons Satan, the floorboards of his study tremble and rock, then suddenly burst open as an army of white demons leap out. <br /><br />- A black dog runs through Faust’s open door. Faust eagerly catches its leash as it dives into a wardrobe. He pulls the dog back out into the open – but at the end of the leash he finds Mephistopheles. <br /><br />- As she tempts Faust to sign away his soul, Mephistopheles slowly strips off her black tuxedo to reveal red flesh beneath her moon white face. She has a woman’s bare breasts, and a big red codpiece. <br /><br />- As Faust flies off to Walpurgis Night, the stage splits in half. Demons leads the audience through the gap into the fire-lit, grotesque world of Walpurgis Night. Mephistopheles, dressed like a baroque aristocrat, wears an immense, aristocratic, red beehive wig. Rings of dancing demons cackle beneath a wall of fireworks. Debauched Gretchens, smeared with mud, rut with gigantic swine…and nightmarish murals in black and white loom on the walls…<br /><br />- Death appears as a tall, thin, bald man wearing a corset and hoop skirt, his face painted like a skull. His movements are unbelievably gentle. When he speaks, his velvety, reassuring voice is so loud, it echoes in your bones. <br /><br />Then there was Gretchen. I’ve always thought Faust and Gretchen’s relationship is hard for modern audiences to fully appreciate. After all, these days sex outside of marriage is extremely common. So is having a child out of wedlock. So how can we really understand how wrong it is for Faust to seduce Gretchen?<br /><br />Purcarete solved this problem in a risky but effective way: Gretchen was played by a chorus of barely teenage girls, wearing white shifts, little anklet socks and mary janes. They carry lanterns and ring little silver bells to protect themselves against spirits. They are painfully young – and the middle-aged Faust becomes a borderline pedophile. What he’s doing is not noble, not sexy, not romantic, but just plain wrong. In the play’s most disturbing image, Mephistopheles lays one Gretchen on the floor, and slowly buries her hands beneath the girl’s white shift. The hands emerge bloody, and Faust trembles with excitement.<br /><br />The Gretchen chorus helped me see the Faust story in a completely new way. It became a tale about how the devil uses the wicked to hurt the innocent. The message: people think they want love, but they crave sensation. And those who can’t feel love – the bored, the despairing, the damaged – can enjoy inflicting their pain on the whole and pure. <br /><br />Perhaps the most surprising moment was at the very end, when God wins his bet with the devil by forgiving Faust. Mephistopheles is angry, hurt, but also inspired. She marvels at the miracle of divine love, the one thing the Devil isn’t expecting, is never expecting. She even flirts with the idea of repentance– but soon slowly spirals back into the old habit of hate. <br /><br />My own favorite part, though, was actually the curtain call. After all of the spectacle, the suffering, the whole horrible tale, all 80-odd performers came out together to take their bows. There was something so touching about watching angels and devils, saints and sinners, children and monsters, turn their faces to the light and take a bow. That’s what we love about theater, right? And I thought I hope that’s the way it is when we die: the show is over, take a bow, and everyone is friends.<br /><br /><b>The Seafarer<br />By Conor McPherson <br />Directed by Jimmy Fay<br />at The Abbey Theatre, Dublin</b><br /><br /><i>The Seafarer</i> was reviewed right and left during its New York run, so I’m not going to summarize the entire story here. The first act introduces the characters, all pretty standard-issue Miserable Irish Losers. Most are pickled, and all are stuck in dysfunctional relationships with their families and friends. The second act, a Christmas Eve card game, is much, much better. Most of the characters think they’re just playing poker with an affable, wealthy stranger. Only one man realizes he’s playing the devil for his soul. Now all the mundane details of the first act begin to resonate and take on cosmic significance. A man’s offer to loan his brother 20 Euros is actually a chance to save his sibling’s soul; a desperate bet becomes a prayer for redemption.<br /><br /><b>Different Devils</b><br /><br />In <i>The Seafarer</i>, the Devil wants to damn people because he’s lonely. He doesn’t understand why God loves man so much – and he wants the whole world to suffer his own exile from the divine presence. (There’s a great Hungarian expression for this, roughly translated: “also the neighbor’s cow should die.”) He doesn’t really have any special powers (except pain rays that shoot from his fingers like the Emperor in Star Wars and, of course, omniscience). He must convince men to damn themselves. <br /><br /><i>The Seafarer</i>’s men are lushes that still have faith. Their sins are despair, envy, and mourning for the lost past – the sides of themselves that mirror the Devil, trapped in his fear, dread, and bottomless longing. These men are pretty sure they’re doomed, but they gamble on divine forgiveness. <br /><br />Purcarete’s <i>Faust</i> offers a far different vision of man and devil. Faust delights in the drama and excitement of evil. He destroys other peoples’ lives just to see what will happen. He’s in the grip of an epic self-delusion: he thinks he’s a romantic hero or a deep thinker, when in fact he’s just a common criminal. But in the end, he’s still saved. <i>Faust</i> says the more God can forgive, the greater he is. We deserve to be damned, but we are not – and we’re lucky the decision is not up to us. <br /><br /><br /><I> Many thanks to Andras Visky for bringing me along to see </i>Faust<i> in Sibiu – but even more for his amazing, gut wrenching play </i>Long Friday<i>, which I got to see in Cluj’s Hungarian State Theater. Stay tuned for more on his work! </i>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-31234489194948395572008-06-20T11:15:00.000-07:002008-06-23T11:09:37.513-07:00Travels with Bip: DublinSpring 2008:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtgCeOm2A1C2z-nLnJTaHSIKqLUCPEIx0ViwIVI3qVsWmZ4NlWQokKkkH1c78ktpJa8slAWAbMtxkKCn-oF7rRZ082DDakd624Ue82a3h1vTs4jXiqcBT7tKB99Bkeg6ssAt_eA/s1600-h/jameson1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtgCeOm2A1C2z-nLnJTaHSIKqLUCPEIx0ViwIVI3qVsWmZ4NlWQokKkkH1c78ktpJa8slAWAbMtxkKCn-oF7rRZ082DDakd624Ue82a3h1vTs4jXiqcBT7tKB99Bkeg6ssAt_eA/s320/jameson1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214029553085140482" /></a><br />Note to self: never follow a tour of the Jameson factory with a visit to an interactive history museum. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFb70gSac0DjS_LZsPhKPG9U1EMZzajDTOt2DrvwMjSILn-RSVe5rJ_NIwYw-rhMtMgk2MSlwgigLhyphenhyphen7LhdI8_DoBFKHPm1goEIaZVsMyC7Y_1IUW_cmRazsn78pv7-hUJBieC0g/s1600-h/viking7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFb70gSac0DjS_LZsPhKPG9U1EMZzajDTOt2DrvwMjSILn-RSVe5rJ_NIwYw-rhMtMgk2MSlwgigLhyphenhyphen7LhdI8_DoBFKHPm1goEIaZVsMyC7Y_1IUW_cmRazsn78pv7-hUJBieC0g/s320/viking7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214029549915624674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjweroxP4vdFaS1NDK-YdaOekq3jduNQkYr3z3WipumF8iFtQoEhhzr63ELmmi0TY9M_D_dkPFjNOfaIkC8kAy0J4yEr6q69vCVlaKapLpQb1bKaSO7dUQpohzXg7gRfibqXUIGA/s1600-h/viking6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjweroxP4vdFaS1NDK-YdaOekq3jduNQkYr3z3WipumF8iFtQoEhhzr63ELmmi0TY9M_D_dkPFjNOfaIkC8kAy0J4yEr6q69vCVlaKapLpQb1bKaSO7dUQpohzXg7gRfibqXUIGA/s320/viking6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214029555110592466" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXfOesL-bwd0Uo0onBi_jxAfX7s6rFHKL7rU27m4Zbg-aqRkgxJW8lL1miAgCeTFQZiIyYNbAFKu2gy9vz-9YIP2Ddviy_QFSTngLBzQCVckEYB0Lt9NblxooV95TD7sN99bUgA/s1600-h/vikin3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXfOesL-bwd0Uo0onBi_jxAfX7s6rFHKL7rU27m4Zbg-aqRkgxJW8lL1miAgCeTFQZiIyYNbAFKu2gy9vz-9YIP2Ddviy_QFSTngLBzQCVckEYB0Lt9NblxooV95TD7sN99bUgA/s320/vikin3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214245462828164514" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZdi4iz2MJmHo6xkMUr0dJU0Iyoa3dSkSvu6EKt7scMzj69HxiXx8_DQvg_wzEFT9MAKh1NUCVpbtWYpKlG1Ts_D2udwpXh18bQIO3vsDCU2VkgoTK_dGUTeWt4phu1xFXthvkQ/s1600-h/viking4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZdi4iz2MJmHo6xkMUr0dJU0Iyoa3dSkSvu6EKt7scMzj69HxiXx8_DQvg_wzEFT9MAKh1NUCVpbtWYpKlG1Ts_D2udwpXh18bQIO3vsDCU2VkgoTK_dGUTeWt4phu1xFXthvkQ/s320/viking4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214245465267295506" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-sQmo40_Y_2u1uUg65IfJDFQYyacXgcc3emJcLil8TQW1gLCz0iEtcdzqFe7tUyP53biP5rJtJhnL2DQdtn0CZtZWDmIq_UHxp1QRDrFiBeE06lcJWQydvx1NiU1SSocLQJ-_Q/s1600-h/viking5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-sQmo40_Y_2u1uUg65IfJDFQYyacXgcc3emJcLil8TQW1gLCz0iEtcdzqFe7tUyP53biP5rJtJhnL2DQdtn0CZtZWDmIq_UHxp1QRDrFiBeE06lcJWQydvx1NiU1SSocLQJ-_Q/s320/viking5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214029555094913826" /></a><br /><br />You might see Elvis on the way home.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXj1jbgqrba41GHM8DeDhom0g3WlKWSegfTFF8E4UZKCaRKWspcKCvVb7u6-oGkat0Zawq2yl1OS0wo0wzJTZfSuG5lgqP2VpWnbAR4qFOTcu-H2TTZ7NmHodXnG0vTaj8vhXlgg/s1600-h/elvis.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXj1jbgqrba41GHM8DeDhom0g3WlKWSegfTFF8E4UZKCaRKWspcKCvVb7u6-oGkat0Zawq2yl1OS0wo0wzJTZfSuG5lgqP2VpWnbAR4qFOTcu-H2TTZ7NmHodXnG0vTaj8vhXlgg/s320/elvis.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214029547127592658" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-73789095951994263592008-06-20T09:13:00.000-07:002008-06-20T11:14:49.739-07:00Travels with Bip: VeniceSpring 2008:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7E6sjztdd-niMITkSMRJF3TZCZWN0B036RlaU8tTMFwxG3XmWmW63xAtj1K1I1KpSnB8Zu1KCc1DusUEV-C6bzVlyqn4WyrX0qdYqOWLyGtkHVIBULzKrvUamM5zbcWYVWO6Bw/s1600-h/veniceblue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7E6sjztdd-niMITkSMRJF3TZCZWN0B036RlaU8tTMFwxG3XmWmW63xAtj1K1I1KpSnB8Zu1KCc1DusUEV-C6bzVlyqn4WyrX0qdYqOWLyGtkHVIBULzKrvUamM5zbcWYVWO6Bw/s320/veniceblue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214028258535091730" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTK8EjXosOBpm5DDOD2Mch9zWK7C-BL7W6NHGqz4AJ_vY8UvZgJYwubhQcF9J_ppXbCAnyw79NLilH-h1W9rTBwr0gDKOOpBr-KzY6xTBjh6PVK-6DiYMzsNrHFSfCbw73S8icog/s1600-h/venice2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTK8EjXosOBpm5DDOD2Mch9zWK7C-BL7W6NHGqz4AJ_vY8UvZgJYwubhQcF9J_ppXbCAnyw79NLilH-h1W9rTBwr0gDKOOpBr-KzY6xTBjh6PVK-6DiYMzsNrHFSfCbw73S8icog/s320/venice2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213998578938138706" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigxdBB_nCY2XHb60WxCPjrA7z3peReQSegoDMES6Fh5uRV5g0XRbgGSh0dFf6CuWfsOZGC4BJf6j_RMlNr-aMU7M85_YWf5j1RLo4CqhZ_P8SaxwuEGE-9UldOZaCvnL2y6zCAA/s1600-h/venice3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigxdBB_nCY2XHb60WxCPjrA7z3peReQSegoDMES6Fh5uRV5g0XRbgGSh0dFf6CuWfsOZGC4BJf6j_RMlNr-aMU7M85_YWf5j1RLo4CqhZ_P8SaxwuEGE-9UldOZaCvnL2y6zCAA/s320/venice3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213998583842276850" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3o10fFDyf1dBcol53eFRRdLvP16O8kZvoaLsUEpIWsqevdVti0AAIv0HUB4-Ur-zXZW8cyGYKjfwyR6BmUKjr2rugCaMguEmY18EZvbm5CSFmbiCClr5N84VFEVHHk1qdwzCaw/s1600-h/venice4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3o10fFDyf1dBcol53eFRRdLvP16O8kZvoaLsUEpIWsqevdVti0AAIv0HUB4-Ur-zXZW8cyGYKjfwyR6BmUKjr2rugCaMguEmY18EZvbm5CSFmbiCClr5N84VFEVHHk1qdwzCaw/s320/venice4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213998589927458098" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_lzSMe8Zl6LZVzT4x8txYcpgVK1KRg6Gi_iZTblwX5y8VH3cEScyrEyL7_IeyDGqMMQ8zVH_1b8RV6GuLsccNf46_aNKJUT8q6Z0tTFvtmqQsKG6ud7Z0UeXb_TCRLuMdzgGlw/s1600-h/masks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_lzSMe8Zl6LZVzT4x8txYcpgVK1KRg6Gi_iZTblwX5y8VH3cEScyrEyL7_IeyDGqMMQ8zVH_1b8RV6GuLsccNf46_aNKJUT8q6Z0tTFvtmqQsKG6ud7Z0UeXb_TCRLuMdzgGlw/s320/masks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213998591099709074" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqbFnvQt8ZCw5o3hsh3E5fh07BHEB80HYoOCjFcSvK0d2lwv1fwBhAim3joVXqQHe5F255KDa_8ojkgaknydxXEI1woTRO2ajqUSrJ0YgehmotA0Ms9dQp08AeNqtmUmD18SvNQ/s1600-h/meandbip.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqbFnvQt8ZCw5o3hsh3E5fh07BHEB80HYoOCjFcSvK0d2lwv1fwBhAim3joVXqQHe5F255KDa_8ojkgaknydxXEI1woTRO2ajqUSrJ0YgehmotA0Ms9dQp08AeNqtmUmD18SvNQ/s320/meandbip.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213998591554427394" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-53254141260003441092008-06-20T08:50:00.000-07:002008-06-20T11:10:45.140-07:00Kiri Te KanawaApparently soprano Kiri Te Kanawa has a fanatical Budapest fan club...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCiRCjQXq_qdWD3G_tP9x9sUSOdKefuLU1F8JCbolZe0Z4UyXckBIPUqAKtA9jLsxz5YV5AbEeTV8Ji6rmkRQmjsLa0KbCIJPuZdp-DGzu7XnXuQAgi0bZkAFO_7EhSJ8g8OZ9A/s1600-h/kiritekanawa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCiRCjQXq_qdWD3G_tP9x9sUSOdKefuLU1F8JCbolZe0Z4UyXckBIPUqAKtA9jLsxz5YV5AbEeTV8Ji6rmkRQmjsLa0KbCIJPuZdp-DGzu7XnXuQAgi0bZkAFO_7EhSJ8g8OZ9A/s320/kiritekanawa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213992843622813922" /></a><br />Is she the new Andre the Giant?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5o9688_guHstul4fDm47x7snfoywrBSwfCdcV0yncLtkWp3NysLk_rncNIP7UYFFYasgtB_6LuTy1uvcvBivsFqf33Sy_7gecVJSn2uNwXsgT4ueQPoEpS_lhqxgEF1xEQzrCw/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5o9688_guHstul4fDm47x7snfoywrBSwfCdcV0yncLtkWp3NysLk_rncNIP7UYFFYasgtB_6LuTy1uvcvBivsFqf33Sy_7gecVJSn2uNwXsgT4ueQPoEpS_lhqxgEF1xEQzrCw/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213994414641234434" /></a><br />Or maybe she's marking her turf? You know, just to warn Renee Fleming to stay the eff on her own side of town.Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-77458758275700554672008-06-18T06:02:00.001-07:002008-06-18T06:07:23.386-07:00The FutureSo it's finally completely official: Rick and I are moving back to New York at the end of August. I'm going to get an MFA in Dramatic Writing at NYU. Rick will be holding it down on the day job front while continuing to write the world's most awesome short stories.<br /><br />More recent news, photos, theater thoughts, funny stories, and randomosity coming up soon.Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-15594447095667343692008-06-13T09:49:00.000-07:002008-06-13T12:24:23.635-07:00Back in EffectMy last post was just after New Year’s, and here it is the last day of school in Budapest. There’s no excuse for my chronic blog silence, so I’m not going to attempt to make one. Instead, I will rescue several trivial, but funny, episodes from blogless oblivion. <br /><br />1. <b>Yoda.</b><br />Apparently Yoda speaks Hungarian. The story (which I really don’t want to check out, lest it prove to be false) goes like this: during shooting for the Yoda scenes in the first star wars, George Lucas worried that Yoda didn’t sound alien enough. So they asked a Hungarian cameraman on the crew to translate Yoda’s lines from English into Hungarian and back again, word for word. The result? Crazy backwards Yoda talk. “Many years study you must if a Jedi you would be.” It’s Hungarian syntax! I wish someone had told me this before, I might be conversational by now. Thanks, <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com">Bob</a>! <br /><br />In other news, my 12-year-old English student Kata continues to be a source of unintentional amusement. When I asked her to use the word “rebel” in a sentence yesterday, she confidently replied “When you are sick, and you want get better, you must eat a rebel.” Next, I asked her to use the word “church,” and she offered “I church my ball.” Then she giggled uncontrollably. I'm beginning to think she's just messing with me.<br /><br />2. <b>Cherry Pie.</b><br />This winter, Rick and I both wrote books on global warming. What does this have to do with Cherry Pie, you ask? This week, we decided to use some of the fresh sour cherries at our local market to make a delicious cherry pie. We decorated the top of the pie with a cute, goofy sun made out of dough. Unfortunately, I turned the oven up too high. Much like our earth, pies are vulnerable to rising temperatures. When humans are careless, our pies pay the price. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBVozE3Z6cJG9vh-Zl30eVEh5mFb1zMOWml7NuKKLbTI8caj8NV-wiFB1K2-9QXQ5dsI7pg3tBtNqqUHE6wa1Ut5ocR3gINxJGfXyTqt_bLSliDSYh9LlO-zikJAtm-flOEDASg/s1600-h/pie1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBVozE3Z6cJG9vh-Zl30eVEh5mFb1zMOWml7NuKKLbTI8caj8NV-wiFB1K2-9QXQ5dsI7pg3tBtNqqUHE6wa1Ut5ocR3gINxJGfXyTqt_bLSliDSYh9LlO-zikJAtm-flOEDASg/s320/pie1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211410347549048082" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeQdPpM4rpTbpwB5b1qAJ2BcuZRJVGvG7A0dMZA7k0QRXuRRt9mG-LyPru2k1VfTrSY4Il8za3gPl2d87GDJM59-B3zhjX4Z6JjxxkSEIw-BZerYukbXMkVSIS4YWjv2gfkoadQ/s1600-h/pieclose.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeQdPpM4rpTbpwB5b1qAJ2BcuZRJVGvG7A0dMZA7k0QRXuRRt9mG-LyPru2k1VfTrSY4Il8za3gPl2d87GDJM59-B3zhjX4Z6JjxxkSEIw-BZerYukbXMkVSIS4YWjv2gfkoadQ/s320/pieclose.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211410352831165602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-IdrDRH9ce2XDZEBMOlG9OuaHmJLdOkEyzkUucq5ZcYmaB8wC2-l-VBziX7fp5OO9WF6gMcuOHQLpaXR-nk_WpeOBqt6FMM6qPSlZlBA4TmVE-6YdnQ7-3N-9_T1mRHA2WgR3g/s1600-h/pie3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-IdrDRH9ce2XDZEBMOlG9OuaHmJLdOkEyzkUucq5ZcYmaB8wC2-l-VBziX7fp5OO9WF6gMcuOHQLpaXR-nk_WpeOBqt6FMM6qPSlZlBA4TmVE-6YdnQ7-3N-9_T1mRHA2WgR3g/s320/pie3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211410346430932514" /></a><br /><br /><br />3. <b>Unintentional Poetry</b><br />It’s summer time, and that means I’m working on new background articles for The Met radio broadcasts. I’m ridiculously paranoid about getting rid of text, so when I edit articles I create an “outtakes” document, where I paste erased phrases. Sometimes this results in tiny, unintentional poems. Here are three of my latest: <br /><br /><br /><b>THE DAMNATION OF FAUST</b><br /><br />Remembering the sensation<br />the lures and dangers of knowledge<br />torn between longing for the infinite and lust for earthly pleasures<br />set in the years before and during Germany’s descent into Nazism.<br />Towards the Damnation (In the mean time in between time)<br />and at the end of that decisive section I was obliged to abandon the peroration of my piece<br />It wasn’t mere paranoia.<br /><br /><br /><b>THAïS</b><br />(“so all three virgins are martyred virgo intacta – a real Medieval crowd-pleaser.”)<br />What’s a marionette lay?<br />Their virginity (though not their lives) is preserved through miracles<br />which provided the famous first couple of humanity with operatic love duets to sing <br />he marches her through the desert, delighting<br />and ultimately dies a magnificent martyr’s death in the desert.<br />It’s almost a Romeo and Juliette story.<br />the difference between spiritual love and erotic love<br /><br /><br /><b>LA RONDINE</b><br />the original spaghetti western,<br />with no higher philosophical purpose<br />And the world was unstable, changing rapidly, and frighteningly, every day.<br />kept his head in the sand about the war for a long time. <br /><br />What, she just walks away from the relationship, and that’s the end?<br />About the death of youthful illusions. <br />and willing them to become present reality<br />sorrow, the regret of the passing of the world, the waste and sorrow and heartbreak on the way to the future,<br />He can’t write what he wants, and he can’t create a perfect muse.<br />held a poignant sweetness <br />The past will never return (and nothing will ever be the same again.)<br />It’s a small tragedy,<br />It’s a human-sized tragedy.Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-57604569812183847482008-01-22T08:28:00.000-08:002008-01-22T08:37:38.722-08:00Hungarian JazzHey guys, an article of mine was published in weekly Hungarian music magazine <a href="http://www.fidelio.hu/magazin_j.asp?id=13045">Fidelio</a>! The English title is An American Jazz Musician at the Jazz Showcase. Check out the article (translated into Hungarian) <a href="http://www.fidelio.hu/magazin_j.asp?id=13045">here</a>.Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-26275184191972271122008-01-02T10:28:00.000-08:002008-01-02T10:31:14.541-08:00Fun TimesRead Rick's write up of <a href="http://thelittleblackegg.blogspot.com/2008/01/2007-is-over.html">the craziest show(s)</a> we saw in 2007!Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-68921474906631412162008-01-01T12:53:00.000-08:002008-01-02T00:18:05.139-08:00Snow Day!January 1, 2008:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRQ6gCoDeGdwwVCdZ3pRRkIXByo2AJlftLIsYeZpXistEkSQVCD0vheUdmR0yOnCrEeJ0shcncSwQzso11B59DYunBfChG5KYz78GY1opiBRvuakz6tlvOvLHg8I1FKGbeB-MpQ/s1600-h/bridge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlkBierOkrAuZEbR4_s0D-LneVz_hAwIeHQUR0kRVe9JXTVKYhCVRB34CUrZSJ7h1egywMxWqrRE8XBfQuH0dS3XcJPYv65l4UkvJg1Yo-nUOCJJSjI3fP4BgfILkdye4GYtXEw/s320/sledding2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150636446479233938" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-18856809598343717362007-12-31T03:15:00.000-08:002007-12-31T03:22:21.726-08:002007 Roundup: Two Plays1. <i>Uncle Vanya</i> in Transylvania (<i>Vanya Bacsi</i>)<br /><br />I got to check out an excellent <i>Uncle Vanya</i> at the Hungarian State Theater in Cluj, directed by Andre Serban. The play was performed in Hungarian with Romanian subtitles, but I read along with an English translation.<br /><br /> It was hilarious. Thank god there was no pointless slapstick—just absurd yet appropriate character details. For example: in Act 2, the drunk Doctor, on a long and wild bender with his friend Vanya, wanders into the Professor’s living room carrying a 10-foot long plank of heavy wood. He looks around with a baffled expression, and asks “Where are the ladies?” Genius. <br /><br />Incredible performances: sweaty, committed, over-the top in the best possible way. But what will stay with me are certain perfect, indelible images. During Act 1, the audience was seated on the stage, while the actors climbed over seats and along precarious railings. This struck me as a little silly until the end of the act when, pair by pair, all the characters tango up the theater’s center aisle and disappear. Vanya is left sitting alone in the center of the aisle. Slowly, slowly, the theater’s massive chandelier dims to a reddish amber and descends, until it is hovering just inches above Vanya’s immobile, bald head: a ridiculously oversized cloud of despair. <br /><br />During Act 2 (the drunkathon), the audience moves onstage, where the action takes place along the three side walls of the stage. Much of the action takes place (dangerously, precariously) on the steep, rickety metal steps that ascend to the theater’s roof. To the audience’s left, there’s a vast expanse of dirt with a dollhouse in the center. At one point Vanya wanders drunkenly out of the house into this field. It’s drizzling on this part of the stage. He drops to his knees in the mud, makes a mess of himself, and lies down helplessly beside the dollhouse.<br /><br /><br />2. Krétakör’s <i>The Ice</i> (<i>A jég</i>)<br /><br />Another incredible performance, this one by Budapest’s hippest alternative theater troupe Krétakör. They constructed a giant, naturalistic, two-story house that took up well over half of Budapest's Trafo theater space. The audience entered through the set, filing past the actors who sat around a big round table in the “kitchen.” The actors casually greeted us as we entered—I felt a little like I was visiting a friend’s house during a family gathering. <br /><br />The plot is a bit too weird to sum up here—set in Moscow, it follows several different people from different levels of society who are inducted into a strange, brutal cult obsessed with meteor ice. It’s fascinating, but complicated. (There were no subtitles, so Eszter did simultaneous translation for me—bless her). <br /><br />The production was no-holds-barred, anything-goes, balls-to-the-wall physical. Actors scaled the set like a jungle gym, hurled books at eachother, launched into pratfalls, and simulated some very convincing violence. Metal lipsyncing in a bathtub full of water. Lots of dancing. Live music. A man humping a computer screen that displays an image of Stalin. Now I can hear some of you telling yourselves, “What’s she talking about? This sounds awful!” And yet I swear to you, it was amazing.<br /><br />I directed a production a few years back that had a lot of sexual content, but no nudity. Well, <i>The Ice</i> made me feel like such a baby. I’ve never seen so much nudity and simulated sex onstage. And while I wouldn’t exactly call it tasteful—tasteful wasn’t the point—it was always appropriate, weirdly appropriate, and in service of the story. It was not aggressive or “in your face,” not angry or confrontational, but simply human. The characters are all lost, confused, upset. Their sexual encounters are funny, or tragic or both; usually awkward, drunken, or a little nauseating, or embarrassing. Nothing really “sexy” about it.<br /><br />Krétakör’s bravery blew me away. But it wasn’t just the nudity, or the athleticism, or the raw emotion that got me. Their show also took incredible narrative risks. I was surprised at every turn. Seeing the realistic set, I assumed we were going to see a naturalistic play. Wrong. There were naturalistic moments, sure. But at other times, two people sitting in front of a fan, waving a spatula like a windshield wiper, were suddenly in a car. The actors broke the fourth wall regularly, transitioned seamlessly from a multi-generational family dinner into a sleazy nightclub without so much as a lighting change. It reminded me a little of <i>Gatz</i> in that way; black box “open theater” in a naturalistic set.<br /><br />And all that was just in the first act. After intermission, the audience was seated on the two-story set, facing the former audience bleachers, which had been transformed into a forest of miniature Christmas trees. The act was one long monologue, split between different actors: an explanation of the origins of the cult. Those actors not speaking created a soundscape that underscored the monologue. At first the actors voiced the bird and insects of a forest. Then their sounds morphed gradually into into the clattering of a train heading towards a concentration camp, the clack of typewriters in a German office, and later on, the low choral hum of an encounter with a mysterious meteor. It was the most “choral” work I’ve seen in the theater. <br /><br />I hear that Krétakör will be coming to the Lincoln Center Festival this summer; get your tickets now, I say. Spend whatever it takes. I know I plan on seeing them as much as possible while here.Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-21242103540526307302007-12-30T10:12:00.001-08:002007-12-31T01:00:09.628-08:002007 Roundup: NegreniI’m racing to get in a mention of some of the great stuff we did, but did not blog about, in 2007, before it becomes literally last year’s news. <br /><br />October 2007: The Negreni Fair. Held every year in Negreni, Transylvania, a three hour train trip away from Cluj, Romania. What is there to say about Negreni that hasn't already been said by <a href="http://horinca.blogspot.com/2006/10/negreni-excuse-me-is-your-name-gabor.html">Dumneazu</a>? I know I certainly can’t offer any additional insight. I was too overwhelmed. But I do have some pictures (some are by fellow Benningtonite and Budapester Matt E.) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gmzqF7gh7UA/R3amKw-TMbI/AAAAAAAAAoE/xlqJjK4MIGU/s1600-h/fair.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gmzqF7gh7UA/R3amKw-TMbI/AAAAAAAAAoE/xlqJjK4MIGU/s320/fair.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149485927819850162" /></a><br /><br />To get to Negreni, you’ve got to take a local train at the butt crack of dawn, far out into the autumn countryside. We got off one stop too soon, in the literal middle of nowhere—as we hesitated to step off the train into a deserted field, the gaggle Romanian teenagers behind us laughed: “It’s Negreni!” The train started moving quickly, and we literally leapt off the train onto a sloping grassy hillside. A twenty minute walk into “town” finally brought us to the outskirts of the fair. I loved these rides, named after Coney Island’s Luna Park, the world’s most famous amusement park 100 years ago…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NKDxmhS7LU1XnvaE6jvfEp-AtAMEwHFqid8HRndJsApcwk75YCp0DYwcUkCXlynPVBo7lX9bqumbRwG8ELzpN9jaxjh106C2VXD6ZnK-RxfgOtecN9wySLY_BnhGGMFR2JuTNQ/s1600-h/lunaparc.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NKDxmhS7LU1XnvaE6jvfEp-AtAMEwHFqid8HRndJsApcwk75YCp0DYwcUkCXlynPVBo7lX9bqumbRwG8ELzpN9jaxjh106C2VXD6ZnK-RxfgOtecN9wySLY_BnhGGMFR2JuTNQ/s320/lunaparc.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149830839463522930" /></a><br /><br />Inside the fair: <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOTAMzAEMDxXzHMd5_oDpkCiy9M4IfJDLnZchW1Kd8DEHo42G_i7qfhMzx26WGMGpXHhhOxtiN0vVEGOhfpPxZybr4xLLCQvFyKfJdZI5Qzx2gcWxAGRnwEYGux13Nw4IuXwcHVA/s1600-h/peppers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOTAMzAEMDxXzHMd5_oDpkCiy9M4IfJDLnZchW1Kd8DEHo42G_i7qfhMzx26WGMGpXHhhOxtiN0vVEGOhfpPxZybr4xLLCQvFyKfJdZI5Qzx2gcWxAGRnwEYGux13Nw4IuXwcHVA/s320/peppers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149788632819905106" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1aor_MkHzfqmZIosAFbI3WyrPHJcMYK4THi52bR46epdBq2wzo2VkH3EfOBCQrpdMMXmd9XUmqAxbcGNCZLREjavxBekgV_GVk7EKtHBcz5b734YyqCDuzigiV3DUJ-7nTYriw/s1600-h/trompi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1aor_MkHzfqmZIosAFbI3WyrPHJcMYK4THi52bR46epdBq2wzo2VkH3EfOBCQrpdMMXmd9XUmqAxbcGNCZLREjavxBekgV_GVk7EKtHBcz5b734YyqCDuzigiV3DUJ-7nTYriw/s320/trompi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149789238410293858" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GEfp5gQIWCnX3JxhRe-9zcgGxglkJhmQ6rLHYOBZ60w7LR8gBPN4F_X7MMcxWUgvabB6HtdJlyMdYMggQ7Jto0C58Q9tvbGqM-M4psZ8Gj63ypLis_vlWXgQq1msqRiGeXXwaQ/s1600-h/fiddle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GEfp5gQIWCnX3JxhRe-9zcgGxglkJhmQ6rLHYOBZ60w7LR8gBPN4F_X7MMcxWUgvabB6HtdJlyMdYMggQ7Jto0C58Q9tvbGqM-M4psZ8Gj63ypLis_vlWXgQq1msqRiGeXXwaQ/s320/fiddle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149485936409784770" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWks2_K_b41DBh2Mr8PwzbiGIhVF-yNAnEsYJzjrEFa8m8TMQt0fp0r3FBxXbW7KhBsYm1Gd_vnbb8zK9JRoSfqVdSBlP0aMKuST3CZ__q8q3dspVkYndzZPkXuXB57da1SVV9Q/s1600-h/gnome.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWks2_K_b41DBh2Mr8PwzbiGIhVF-yNAnEsYJzjrEFa8m8TMQt0fp0r3FBxXbW7KhBsYm1Gd_vnbb8zK9JRoSfqVdSBlP0aMKuST3CZ__q8q3dspVkYndzZPkXuXB57da1SVV9Q/s320/gnome.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149494839876989410" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gmzqF7gh7UA/R3boYA-TMhI/AAAAAAAAAo0/IOUW06OyGIE/s1600-h/marketfrombridge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gmzqF7gh7UA/R3boYA-TMhI/AAAAAAAAAo0/IOUW06OyGIE/s320/marketfrombridge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149558723220550162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7LgdHBkDvlnnsJQfAedeFJHr9RPLUP_vcEEF4R4GBI2qZX5fVaRJyx_5OhT5ww7-buR54W1rZefWkIWUdpzC4O_QiUQFzMmegkp6a0x2BAscPt_HmrUmjS4Zui0GoS7Lxhf-SQ/s1600-h/rick.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7LgdHBkDvlnnsJQfAedeFJHr9RPLUP_vcEEF4R4GBI2qZX5fVaRJyx_5OhT5ww7-buR54W1rZefWkIWUdpzC4O_QiUQFzMmegkp6a0x2BAscPt_HmrUmjS4Zui0GoS7Lxhf-SQ/s320/rick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149838097958253250" /></a><br /><br />Head scarves were the order of the day for women:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYINXyLb-REAY44FVLaPSgWsdvu_buUd7MpF4d4LCXV3issCeWedtBmcYYMMpzWnERax7xeUtyKHMAneMdkpvaUilBJ26ZlnbFu3LB64VgLnUO7ApTzfYEbl_XP5utIJAdNOeNzQ/s1600-h/ladies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYINXyLb-REAY44FVLaPSgWsdvu_buUd7MpF4d4LCXV3issCeWedtBmcYYMMpzWnERax7xeUtyKHMAneMdkpvaUilBJ26ZlnbFu3LB64VgLnUO7ApTzfYEbl_XP5utIJAdNOeNzQ/s320/ladies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149521198091284994" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrisaXnRxSpiFutCZq0wbffKPPt8ukUd0Ed0Uevwly6ZN_y7uikiUkiFVvG7zO0tJa7Jo6YDf3lZov_7Ww5fkS6MPD1_VjGxm5qFq7C7oj10UWukAlRvpS_oJEStURK_u9p3n8w/s1600-h/marketwomen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrisaXnRxSpiFutCZq0wbffKPPt8ukUd0Ed0Uevwly6ZN_y7uikiUkiFVvG7zO0tJa7Jo6YDf3lZov_7Ww5fkS6MPD1_VjGxm5qFq7C7oj10UWukAlRvpS_oJEStURK_u9p3n8w/s320/marketwomen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149558727515517474" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8fNVaOgPLjXNEYr2Y98lwwMn2hwv7tq799j4tFp7tLSnXR0QAv4X2DfWeyVq8IeRL6_gKePjMlkj_tUquOQeHRa5_zIlpcMmnE3uHXlHqhLUHaD26_S2AzRlnIljxOGL9YX12g/s1600-h/momanddaughter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8fNVaOgPLjXNEYr2Y98lwwMn2hwv7tq799j4tFp7tLSnXR0QAv4X2DfWeyVq8IeRL6_gKePjMlkj_tUquOQeHRa5_zIlpcMmnE3uHXlHqhLUHaD26_S2AzRlnIljxOGL9YX12g/s320/momanddaughter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149558731810484786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitk9RbVqIJSrwjB9F6J_FPYc0pEDIKfbQ3u1HKi6Iy3uYvNwfYrRLzyADrXkNqU06hbkgf7ZyffG8vM1OdVM9FIpTVAOy6k6VEu04FvHSC7le5Fx1krt6ZYY3kyVmm6uHNqhuclA/s1600-h/oldlady3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitk9RbVqIJSrwjB9F6J_FPYc0pEDIKfbQ3u1HKi6Iy3uYvNwfYrRLzyADrXkNqU06hbkgf7ZyffG8vM1OdVM9FIpTVAOy6k6VEu04FvHSC7le5Fx1krt6ZYY3kyVmm6uHNqhuclA/s320/oldlady3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149837715706163890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwhxe2aJhdApzPIojYAWBuxZxIejU9fCUyaeOt1hOOlwSEORBx_3dtbJPHf4II-hb6pMR2wBrbZIrdqRZ7PI_FqgjkxR2-tgbfF5tL6Dg0psWmYjo9OumRscIPIg3y-J3tiyxtg/s1600-h/oldlady2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwhxe2aJhdApzPIojYAWBuxZxIejU9fCUyaeOt1hOOlwSEORBx_3dtbJPHf4II-hb6pMR2wBrbZIrdqRZ7PI_FqgjkxR2-tgbfF5tL6Dg0psWmYjo9OumRscIPIg3y-J3tiyxtg/s320/oldlady2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149836057848787618" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjyM7sBcnxxnraXsQ06AXg7azlwm1_UI1bBsXOktEen1N9Lx869PLvFpljdtQufxW-4lkdym9rjifLjYmGgHasPPwUACtlJk9Ht5Lw93xfc64ZnEne1ginKBx5fg6nuAKfAFQkw/s1600-h/oldlady.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjyM7sBcnxxnraXsQ06AXg7azlwm1_UI1bBsXOktEen1N9Lx869PLvFpljdtQufxW-4lkdym9rjifLjYmGgHasPPwUACtlJk9Ht5Lw93xfc64ZnEne1ginKBx5fg6nuAKfAFQkw/s320/oldlady.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149835941884670610" /></a><br /><br />Crazy hats for men:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gmzqF7gh7UA/R3a_ow-TMfI/AAAAAAAAAok/nLE7YcTCrHA/s1600-h/hat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gmzqF7gh7UA/R3a_ow-TMfI/AAAAAAAAAok/nLE7YcTCrHA/s320/hat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149513931006620146" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX77ApkEew8E5O6P00fNPhHmAmuuzexo_v_93uQ5iY8l4puoLRScB4Mh61eAJuX4DvrzQH2-E-VQQJO5QZEHsm8UbqWXUE8krdOi9D6YKrw8RQYVTNqtAvRXJiUv7zaWaBQGicPw/s1600-h/coats.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX77ApkEew8E5O6P00fNPhHmAmuuzexo_v_93uQ5iY8l4puoLRScB4Mh61eAJuX4DvrzQH2-E-VQQJO5QZEHsm8UbqWXUE8krdOi9D6YKrw8RQYVTNqtAvRXJiUv7zaWaBQGicPw/s320/coats.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149485927819850146" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Yl7cbgRuciYSJZK6obMjEZU8Z6-_iIdJiXI0_rGibNkPLKYcbo6qoKtxhkl-nPvQXt4gzxiTtvffhm5_4bJDNCwjh8ahWfLxscnvzM-doogiR3KsLnQN6M03xuZUQi8wMnpSVQ/s1600-h/gabor.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Yl7cbgRuciYSJZK6obMjEZU8Z6-_iIdJiXI0_rGibNkPLKYcbo6qoKtxhkl-nPvQXt4gzxiTtvffhm5_4bJDNCwjh8ahWfLxscnvzM-doogiR3KsLnQN6M03xuZUQi8wMnpSVQ/s320/gabor.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149485936409784786" /></a><br /><br />Most people park by the side of the road or in peasants’ front yards. Those who didn’t come by car park somewhere by the river: <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2PzCVNbp4ecHbOY9V0yQlRbJLPj-VHTcvGdOGHvOb2jKgX-mr_Mg7cFoGIs7ScoXpa4B-2VVNTkFrjvt3OpeWOQ4shRWPgzsKUmIUV3wdABjO_D1_N8yL7hhF70I90YcDycmBdw/s1600-h/parking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2PzCVNbp4ecHbOY9V0yQlRbJLPj-VHTcvGdOGHvOb2jKgX-mr_Mg7cFoGIs7ScoXpa4B-2VVNTkFrjvt3OpeWOQ4shRWPgzsKUmIUV3wdABjO_D1_N8yL7hhF70I90YcDycmBdw/s320/parking.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149831045621953154" /></a><br /><br />We bought handmade textiles for married friends, almost got a Russian gramophone, were sorely tempted by some shitty instruments, saw antique cookoo clocks a-plenty. But my favorite item at the fair was this baby: <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmJgvRiGtsdks5x1AHPk83KzU_cjb6vGgKA94KtFlVls27CvN5zDs5Q6rPMzwr9y21T1ZRKvQvsVaA4GTjhOMZ3r_-m9N1tzoYQXgsQp91HmHmMhIG8nGGvdAowAfrL_LcotLkQ/s1600-h/painting.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmJgvRiGtsdks5x1AHPk83KzU_cjb6vGgKA94KtFlVls27CvN5zDs5Q6rPMzwr9y21T1ZRKvQvsVaA4GTjhOMZ3r_-m9N1tzoYQXgsQp91HmHmMhIG8nGGvdAowAfrL_LcotLkQ/s320/painting.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149781683562820162" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-53831987812506905692007-12-29T09:53:00.001-08:002007-12-29T10:09:50.580-08:00Happy Happy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6hcojuKL9Aj92B4swEQKHEA9ABVwRzMGBLSAugAyTttdCCbHQTtCZ7B7hGmALMgk3SRW0oFdZjiiLBh3lBYdSOjTdlPNKxwsNefVPfT7fT7cr43LqTcmyOUuo6CJ7o5zNINAmg/s1600-h/smallboldog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6hcojuKL9Aj92B4swEQKHEA9ABVwRzMGBLSAugAyTttdCCbHQTtCZ7B7hGmALMgk3SRW0oFdZjiiLBh3lBYdSOjTdlPNKxwsNefVPfT7fT7cr43LqTcmyOUuo6CJ7o5zNINAmg/s400/smallboldog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149458603237912962" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-51774675211310147052007-12-20T11:23:00.000-08:002007-12-31T01:01:21.446-08:00TranslationI wanted to write something about the experience of <a href="http://ganchoverseas.blogspot.com/2007/12/translator.html">helping to translate <i>Finito</i></a> while the experience was freshin my mind. Again, I didn’t translate the thing from Hungarian into English—God forbid. Instead I transformed my partner’s precisely translated English prose into rhyming verse. I learned a lot about playwriting and about Hungary along the way.<br /><br /><b>Playwriting, Directing and Crossword Puzzles</b><br />The process was a cross between playwriting, directing and doing a crossword puzzle. Playwriting because you’re writing dialogue—trying to capture a character’s voice, paint vivid images, tell a coherent story, use the right word at the right time. Directing because you also must consider the actions behind each phrase, each exclamation, each word. Why are they saying the things they’re saying? What types of words are they using and why? What’s their strategy? What’s the relationship between the spoken words and the action onstage? As for puzzle—well, try turning this into four lines, ideally of 10 syllables each, where every two lines rhyme and agree rhythmically, and hopefully make sense: <br /><br /><i>There we go, this is the quality, <br />The grumpy/rough body covers an unsophisticated/hick/dumb heart!<br />If I want to say something normally/nicely<br />“Fuck you”’s are flying around.</i><br /><br />Here was my attempted solution to the puzzle:<br /><br /><i>Well that’s just like you, Gáspár. You’re such a troll:<br />Thick head, dirty mouth and dumb country soul!<br />I want to talk nice, like they do on TV<br />But all you can do is throw “fuck you”’s at me!</i><br /><br /><b>Cultural Equivalents</b><br />It was an incredible feeling to be inside the architecture of another person’s work—feeling how it functions from the inside out. It felt a little like building a full-scale replica of a historic building. You’re replicating the structure, but using different materials to build in a different location. You trust the structure. It’s the materials that the rest of the world sees and touches that worry you.<br /><br /><i>Finito</i> is full of puns, inside jokes, cultural references, and double entendres. It just wasn’t possible to find English equivalents (American equivalents, to be exact) for all of them. For instance:<br /><br /><i>Listen, (young country bride—old fashioned village word used for a young hot chick), should I roll this joint?<br />This will make you feel like (an old country bandit—like Robin Hood—antiquated village slang.)</i><br /><br /><br />There is no American equivalent. All you can do is try to stand next to it:<br /><br /><i>Howdy, lil’ lady, should I roll this shit?<br />This will make you Smokey like the Bandit!</i><br /><br />I am convinced that one day fifteen years from now I will wake up in the middle of the night with a better solution for that particular couplet. I was actually rather surprised that my partner accepted the Smokey and the Bandit reference, since she rejected this verse, which I loved:<br /><br /><i>You lie around the house, long face, limp tool,<br />All you do is sleep, drink, eat, shit and drool.<br />You’re a wreck, a human Afghanistan,<br />Useless as a breadwinner and as a man.</i><br /><br />My partner was convinced that the Afghanistan reference wouldn't fly. <br /><br /><b>Translating Hungary </b><br />Let’s start with the pig slaughtering feast. Traditionally, Hungarian families in the countryside have a pig killing feast every fall (it’s a little like Thanksgiving in America). Over the course of the day they slaughter their family hog, and friends and family help to preserve every part of the hog in sausages, aspic, cured meat, etc. They make a huge feast, with special traditional pork dishes. <br /><br />Obviously this is a village tradition, one that can’t survive the move to the city. It’s also totally unfamiliar to Americans. But knowing about this type of party is essential if you want to fully understand <i>Finito</i>. Gáspár’s wife refers to him as a hog. Before Gáspár kills himself, his family throws a kind of pre-wake for him, inviting everyone to dinner. The table is set as for a pig-slaughtering feast. Gáspár is the family pig who will be killed to feed his friends and family. Later in the play, Gáspár takes a pre-suicide bath in his tin courtyard bathtub—the same tub that would be used to bathe a pig before slaughter. (There are more Gáspár-pig parallels in the play, but I’ll spare you the details.) How the hell do you convey that in translation? <br /><br />The play takes place in a village Hungary that has one foot in medieval times and one foot in the modern post-socialist world. The language shifts easily between media-saavy “TV talk” and folksy, age-old idioms. When Gáspár takes his revenge on the world by humiliating the powerful people of his village world and even visiting media royalty, there’s something powerfully Breughel-esque, psychedelic, and ancient about the scene. The year king; carnival; topsy-turvydom. <br /><br />But there’s a lot of modern Hungary in the play, too. By now, Rick and I have learned that government bureauocracy and red tape is deeply rooted in Hungarian culture. (Example: recently my mom sent me a birthday gift. At the post office, I had to visit no fewer than 6 separate windows to pick it up. Window one sent me to window 5, who sent me to window 3 with new forms. Window 3 took my forms, gave me new forms, and sent me to window 7. Window 7 took my new forms, gave me something else to fill out, and sent me back to window 1… It was like a Buster Keaton routine.) This uniquely Hungarian obsession with paperwork and regulation is mined for comic effect in Finito:<br /><br /><i><b>(Poet reading the suicide note he has written for Gáspár)</b> <br />Can we accept, this, sons of the nation?<br />They have robbed our budget allocation<br />30 percent. Poets are slaves in Hungary,<br />Broken, oppressed with 20 percent VAT.<br />We are denied even a simple tax rebate,<br />Because of intellectual product tax rates. <br /><br /><b>(Gáspár)</b><br /> What in the hell do I care what you deduct?<br />I don’t got no intellectual product.<br />At most I try to do the crossword sometimes,<br />Or fill out forms in the unemployment line. </i><br /><br />One of my favorite aspects of the play is the (literal) centrality of Gáspár’s shitter to the plot. Gáspár tries to hang himself in the outhouse. He spends much of the play locked inside it. Now I thought this was just potty humor—but apparently Hungarian men are notorious for liking to spend lots of time on the can, especially in an outdoor toilet.<br /><br /><i><b>(Police Major giving an interview to visiting reporter)</b> <br />Let’s look a bit deeper into the hole<br />The courtyard outhouse is a phallic symbol. <br />When you travel through the country look hard<br />Through the window: what’s in every back yard?<br />Outhouse! Behind every home, there they are!<br />Ancient apocryphal wood home altar,<br />Erect fertility symbol, you stand<br />Proud in the yards of our tiny homeland.<br />Adorned with totems, the pagan’s revenge,<br />A powerful, private, slate-roofed Stonehenge,<br />Where a man can retreat and meditate,<br />A shrine to the vigor that makes men great.<br />…<br />We are all dying, all losers, our resort <br />Is here, the last place we can find some comfort:<br />A compact male universe, land of dreams<br />Where we reign from out thrones as gods supreme.</i> <br /><br />Then there are the curses. Hungarians have EXCELLENT curses. I have two favorites: first “Go back to your mom’s stinky pussy,” which I am assured does not sound so bad in Hungarian. The second is an old village expression: “the strongest dog always fucks.”<br /><br />Ironically, however, Hungarians don’t really believe in cursing onstage. My partner and I clashed constantly over the amount of swear words in the translation. She was always complaining that we were swearing too much; the words were correct but the tone was too harsh. Finally the source of the argument emerged. According to Pat, in Hungary, swearing onstage is still shocking. When a character swears onstage, they lose the audience’s sympathy, become less credible. I realized that in American theater, there’s an unspoken assumption that intense feelings must be expressed by cursing—especially if the characters are lower class, as in <i>Finito</i>. In some cases it may be hard to take a character seriously UNLESS they swear. (Think David Mamet.) <br /><br /><b>The Lost World</b><br />But probably the biggest difference was the most subtle. The night that I went to see <i>Finito</i> with my partner, a kind Hungarian couple informed us that this piece would be impossible to translate. Why? “Because it shows the truth—it shows what’s really going on here—such a shame.” I was a little confused. To be honest, I loved <i>Finito</i> but didn’t consider its story very groundbreaking. Desperately poor people selling their souls for fame, media circus spinning out of control, money and power corrupt all they touch…I felt like I’d heard it before. Pat had to explain bit by bit that in Hungary, these themes still <i>are</i> new—really new. Gáspár is unemployed: it wasn’t so long ago that there were no unemployed people in Hungary. Under socialism, everyone had a job. She went on. Gáspár’s bankrupt village, Nagyabrand (Grand Illusion, or Bigreverie) can’t afford to fix its roads, and no one cares. The media will cover Siamese twins and childmolesting priests, but not real the real crisis in this country town. People have forgotten how to talk to each other without referencing television, they’ve losing everything that made them who they are and they’re buying into a new media culture that has nothing to offer them. Sadly, these are all changes that happened a long time ago in the US. But here, the pain of that transition is still fresh, because the change is still happening.<br /><br /><b>A Shot In the Dark</b><br />But my strangest realization came on opening night. We had some loud cheers and some raspberries. I knew that I felt we had produced a good work in English. I know it is much better than anything that a sole Hungarian speaker (or a sole English speaker) could have produce on their own. But I actually have no idea whether it’s a good translation, because I can’t understand Hungarian. <br /><br />It was the capper on a feeling I’d had throughout the whole process: my writing method had to be in many senses “guess and check.” I had to rely on my partner to tell me whether I had gotten the sense of the speech—just like I had to rely on her to tell me what people were saying at intermission, or what the contracts said, or how the playwright described his characters. I trust her, sure—but it’s a little practicing archery blindfolded. My partner tells me: “a little to the left…up…no, back to the right…OK, now.” I let the arrow fly, then ask “did I hit it?” Or perhaps it’s like a blindfolded treasure hunt in an unfamiliar house. Following verbal instructions, you reach something that feels like a treasure chest—but how can you be sure? You can’t see it. It’s a leap of faith. A shot in the dark.Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-82887925788990340922007-12-13T04:28:00.000-08:002007-12-13T04:36:02.299-08:00Holidays<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidluP2_a0qDkXlwAuRqaiJ9RMuMeUeDx_mW4Z0kLh27fnpj6SMznhQPwnptFrKlOoLm1XLGwk3RyFqESc0iuz8koyqsbdVVFJZnBI8TQLDNxSNlP093Pmu91IfHuS7rxdMkaMYow/s1600-h/rick.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidluP2_a0qDkXlwAuRqaiJ9RMuMeUeDx_mW4Z0kLh27fnpj6SMznhQPwnptFrKlOoLm1XLGwk3RyFqESc0iuz8koyqsbdVVFJZnBI8TQLDNxSNlP093Pmu91IfHuS7rxdMkaMYow/s320/rick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143435162238341570" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqywUQQT_L0-4N_xg-n097Lq2Gw7WVy2RCZgtKvKu0XE27_5S5TZ49R1rsQNrAbbVIR8co44QaYgyjFvSv2Bnbh9u_62ZO27O3xV8IEf_6qeokOgxikFbKkxjKSPVvFHUS3H2Rw/s1600-h/river.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqywUQQT_L0-4N_xg-n097Lq2Gw7WVy2RCZgtKvKu0XE27_5S5TZ49R1rsQNrAbbVIR8co44QaYgyjFvSv2Bnbh9u_62ZO27O3xV8IEf_6qeokOgxikFbKkxjKSPVvFHUS3H2Rw/s320/river.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143435029094355378" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1Xn81dQvGkYlRGTNF0boug-Vr22a4jN6cbhoM1FqwpZkm77S4tVWhQCN3odqRMWTD4w-JlPAgLpeUoORF8KZh2dn-8nJUM1_cAtRYZgfeiwasxvJQcdyOrcHnmFR2ycpY7dwbw/s1600-h/greg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1Xn81dQvGkYlRGTNF0boug-Vr22a4jN6cbhoM1FqwpZkm77S4tVWhQCN3odqRMWTD4w-JlPAgLpeUoORF8KZh2dn-8nJUM1_cAtRYZgfeiwasxvJQcdyOrcHnmFR2ycpY7dwbw/s320/greg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143434861590630818" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4a8qi3oKxs_ZrcGEHVMUybl1kQb7xWw9PldHWqeeYSjmu4NkylReuG6npq5GHXgmVP5R44U6IQetCARSJ1kqqWaws6blzXhphZjsQlsSlMoAkvpRH566woasYEAxzg5ork3bFQ/s1600-h/franklondon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4a8qi3oKxs_ZrcGEHVMUybl1kQb7xWw9PldHWqeeYSjmu4NkylReuG6npq5GHXgmVP5R44U6IQetCARSJ1kqqWaws6blzXhphZjsQlsSlMoAkvpRH566woasYEAxzg5ork3bFQ/s320/franklondon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143434251705274754" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1ByACiaT-eiWJzlsUHwgZ_9NQMTu4UJyS-4Z3WZpgAHx33eedSztwmqoEtifCFBFtQro4jpIpAQh6m4ILIBvVd7eTzAy7tz3J0TDwW5uB7qQVScNr77nJrfxEyZeI_67M1RgBg/s1600-h/hannukah.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1ByACiaT-eiWJzlsUHwgZ_9NQMTu4UJyS-4Z3WZpgAHx33eedSztwmqoEtifCFBFtQro4jpIpAQh6m4ILIBvVd7eTzAy7tz3J0TDwW5uB7qQVScNr77nJrfxEyZeI_67M1RgBg/s320/hannukah.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143434256000242066" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-82138840151587809642007-12-08T01:02:00.000-08:002007-12-08T01:07:24.525-08:00Key Gun KnifeI was in Paris in the beginning of November. I couldn't afford to pick up any new clothes or even to buy a really good French meal, but at least I found a good gift for Rick: the world's tuffest keychain. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ie5cOxfOie73iC4uPQzQv6EFgFBBEinv1Zgksyuren5jwyKALiQYFjtn27Pmkm5Kbjq16RlDVBN9vC9KSJLvtY7ZDreIi_6Sl218MNQiv0b4QdxDIycWdocRW-cBnecPZfssjQ/s1600-h/keychainclosed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ie5cOxfOie73iC4uPQzQv6EFgFBBEinv1Zgksyuren5jwyKALiQYFjtn27Pmkm5Kbjq16RlDVBN9vC9KSJLvtY7ZDreIi_6Sl218MNQiv0b4QdxDIycWdocRW-cBnecPZfssjQ/s320/keychainclosed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141525203166712162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_inpa2s_-qAnPW4OHX4NV3zYnV61clg2mNPqAbiBASPN_jrQQkYbNNdBLKE4dp3-x_gxev4GrC9a-fmYBxaM2OgSTgeYEl-PxfKexo6A0af-1f7F1WxefWItWN3NqlJkQyYJmA/s1600-h/keychainopen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_inpa2s_-qAnPW4OHX4NV3zYnV61clg2mNPqAbiBASPN_jrQQkYbNNdBLKE4dp3-x_gxev4GrC9a-fmYBxaM2OgSTgeYEl-PxfKexo6A0af-1f7F1WxefWItWN3NqlJkQyYJmA/s320/keychainopen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141525203166712178" /></a><br />A gun that turns into a knife. Genius! Can I get a witness?Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-26595613683516747752007-12-07T16:11:00.001-08:002007-12-07T16:25:23.786-08:00The UnicycleThe other night Eszter and I visited some friends of hers. Being helpful television addicts, they decided to teach me about Hungary via an 80’s childrens’ television series about walking across Hungary. It was super evocative—the clothes, the soundtrack, even the look of the light, the quality of the film. Kids in red short shorts and tube socks hiking through a real-life fairy tale: Forests, rural towns, feasts in peasant courtyards, medieval churches and castles…<br /><br />Since it was a hiking-themed show, there were plenty of shots of the kids walking through leafy woods, with their trusty packs strapped on their backs. One of the kids was pushing a unicycle in front of him. I thought this was really weird since the group was walking along forest trails, and there was nowhere level for him to ride his unicycle. A mountain bike I can understand, but a mountain unicycle? It seemed like a colossal waste of energy to walk this unicycle over hill and dale, searching for a level strip of ground. What had gotten into this kid? Why? <br /><br />Then I remembered just how often I see people in my neighborhood riding unicycles. I had thought that this was because we live near a unicycle store (seriously). But could there be something more to it? Street performers here often have unicycles. Coincidence? Or pattern? <br /><br />Sarah: (<i>going out on a limb</i>) So why are unicycles so Hungarian?<br /><br /><i>Blank stares.</i><br /><br />Sarah: I mean, what’s with the unicycles? Seriously.<br /><br />Eszter: Sarah, what are you talking about?<br /><br />Sarah: Hungarians and unicycles. Is it like Mormons and trampolines? <br /><br /><i>More confusion. Unicycles explained as not particularly Hungarian, and how did I get that idea?</i><br /><br />Sarah: Then why on earth is this kid pushing a unicycle all the way across Hungary? There isn’t even a place to ride it! <br /><br />Eszter: What unicycle?<br /><br />Sarah: What do you mean, what unicycle? The thing with one wheel and a handle!<br /><br />Eszter: This is for counting the steps. It’s a…a pedometer. The program is called 100,000 steps in Hungary. So they count the steps.<br /><br />Sarah: …oh.<br /><br />Anyway, as the night wore on the talk turned to children’s television. Of course when my friends were kids, this was still a socialist eastern block country. And they had socialist TV shows. Like the Czech cartoon Bob a Bobek.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ShfiiMkI_Gg&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ShfiiMkI_Gg&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />It’s about two little rabbits that live in a hat. Every morning they get up, do their exercises like good little socialist rabbits, then go to work because “Work Makes You Noble!” (translation courtesy my girl Andi.) Of course one little rabbit always wants to sleep in, and his gung-ho proletarian brother must gently remind him of his rabbit duty. Then they go contribute to society.<br /><br />Rick and I have watched a number of these episodes and, as someone completely unable to understand the dialog, I have some observations. <br /><br />Not only do these rabbits go to work every day, but they do really punishing work for such little rabbits: stacking bricks, industrial dish washing, shoveling coal on a fucking steamship, etc. Even their job serving ice cream to hordes of school children looks harrowing.<br /><br />Second of all, Bob and Bobek are often called upon to help foil thieves. They’re not detectives—they just run into a lot of bungling burglars with big eyes. Now I, like others who have visited Czech Republic, have my fair share of pickpocket and restaurant rip-off stories. Coincidence? Or is this a Czechoslovak thing? You’re a good citizen if you lay bricks and fight crime? Am I crazy here? <br /><br />Alright. So I’m still pretty ignorant about my surroundings. But at least I’m not poor Kelly Pickler:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/juOQhTuzDQ0&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/juOQhTuzDQ0&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-38307883115136355572007-12-05T14:33:00.000-08:002007-12-05T14:35:23.832-08:00Verse ComedyLast night, after writing about my translation job, I discovered this Marx Brothers clip:<br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ycZJZY5uPh0&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ycZJZY5uPh0&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br />Rhyming verse!!!! Who knew?Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-58236668034899270362007-12-04T07:44:00.001-08:002007-12-12T02:30:17.691-08:00The TranslatorLast night was the premiere of my translation (via subtitles) of <i>Finito</i>, by István Tasnádi, at the massive Orkeny Szinhaz in downtown Budapest. <br /><br />That's right, I finally got paid for doing some dramatic writing. This was a commission for the Budapest International Contemporary Drama Festival. <br /><br />Not that I know enough Hungarian to make up my own sentences, let alone translate a full-length play. I was half of a translation team. Here’s how it happened. Last summer, my friend Patricia took a playwriting workshop with Tasnádi at a writer’s colony on Lake Balaton. Tasnádi asked Patricia to take a crack at translating his play for the Contemporary Drama Festival. However, it just so happened that his play was <br /><br />1. A “pseudo-Moliere” play written in rhyming iambic pentameter<br />2. Full of Hungarian TV slang, rural dialect, literary references, elevated poetry and (of course) tons and tons of puns.<br /><br />In other words, a little bit hard to translate. As a matter of fact, Tasnádi had already rejected about 10 translators’ efforts. Since this was a task that would intimidate even most native speakers (it sure as shit intimidated me), Patricia asked me to work with her. She translated from Hungarian into prose English, explained the characters and cultural references and idioms to me, and I then converted the prose into slangy rhyming iambics. We did a two-page sample and, miracle of miracles, we got accepted! <br /><br />The plot, by the way, is roughly as follows: In rural Hungary, a depressed ex-pig sticker named Gáspár is being harassed by his sexually frustrated wife. Gáspár threatens to hang himself in his outhouse (are you laughing yet?). His family calls in the town’s Mayor to resolve the situation, but the Mayor decides to exploit Gáspár’s suicide to publicize his town’s financial crisis. Soon more and more outsiders are getting in on the act. The media descends on the town. A corrupt police negotiator tries to buy Gáspár’s corpse as part of a shady mafia transaction. The head of the New Narrative Union of Hungary decides to transform Gáspár into a poet and present his death as a protest against escalating taxes on intellectual products. And a fading teen pop star, who fears her 15 minutes of fame are up, claims that Gáspár is killing himself for the love of her. Finally the biggest TV show in Hungary joins the fun. Suddenly Gáspár is getting huge bucks to knock himself off on live national television. I suppose I won’t spoil the ending in case anyone out there wants to read it, but let’s just say there is a truly Molieresque ending.<br /><br />Unfortunately we had just under a month to translate the whole thing—80 pages of freaking verse. Needless to say, I basically didn’t sleep. This was honestly the hardest I’ve ever worked on anything. Just to reach the end of page 80, I had to work about 16 hours a day with no socializing, no distractions, no procrastination, not even lunch. (Actually that's not true, Rick made me lunch). Holy fuck.<br /><br />But we did it, and we even managed to figure out how to make subtitles for the performance in power point. And last night, Rick and our friends Dylan, Michelle, Matt, and Laci got to see it in the theater. I've never presented work in such a gorgeous theater. It has a balcony and pro ushers in matching outfits! It has marble snack bars! Sold out, a great crowd…<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNW25rU4NR1EQEHV7_N39nbeYsp97KC2-JOQrrGaLYDOoQOS0O7ct35gLQmWMLFQIks9LGnux9aPaDEqvrLAXrAI1SWuI7FgvIhuUyk-A1CBPM7_l3NKk1xrFkPtlTHGfhu1VbtA/s1600-h/crowd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNW25rU4NR1EQEHV7_N39nbeYsp97KC2-JOQrrGaLYDOoQOS0O7ct35gLQmWMLFQIks9LGnux9aPaDEqvrLAXrAI1SWuI7FgvIhuUyk-A1CBPM7_l3NKk1xrFkPtlTHGfhu1VbtA/s320/crowd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140145827174961458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikNYCXjXM_BxtaO-AxYRncIJfXJJ84rXU6oiYAM7bHDx_dMXmGF6WKnMMQaanM66VGzGbwtH8QIxJbICyNG0LjgGVSUxm1MnU1VYYAlSdnY_B9MLHHcKMY1CIc9tociytbEOVx9Q/s1600-h/me.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikNYCXjXM_BxtaO-AxYRncIJfXJJ84rXU6oiYAM7bHDx_dMXmGF6WKnMMQaanM66VGzGbwtH8QIxJbICyNG0LjgGVSUxm1MnU1VYYAlSdnY_B9MLHHcKMY1CIc9tociytbEOVx9Q/s320/me.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140145844354830658" /></a><br /><br />Plus the chance to see my name, Sarah Gansher (why can no one say my name correctly, ever?) in the program. If anyone wants to read a rhyming verse comedy about a dude who tries to hang himself in an outhouse, let me know!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_4E6Q_gemGHAcuXSB21oDhBqREdKrdIlzXxxc6LFHJrFQhx7iJFO9jbp-YZvcF2HeCaxAcDE9zyHfR5DlGAB8VT1c794076tHq1ou7T7TMqrij8jK6KcLnQRa-bOcTgQlJlGwA/s1600-h/blurrystage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_4E6Q_gemGHAcuXSB21oDhBqREdKrdIlzXxxc6LFHJrFQhx7iJFO9jbp-YZvcF2HeCaxAcDE9zyHfR5DlGAB8VT1c794076tHq1ou7T7TMqrij8jK6KcLnQRa-bOcTgQlJlGwA/s320/blurrystage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140145814290059554" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-52978226568551804642007-12-04T01:39:00.000-08:002007-12-04T01:40:35.369-08:00Explain YourselfSo it’s an in-between time for me right now, in lots of ways. I started this blog when I first moved to Budapest, to write about my culture shock, to make sense of the world around me. But as I got more and more comfortable here, the blog got harder to write. Maybe I need to change my format a little, give myself permission to write a little more about my life and less about the city around me. <br /><br />There’s plenty to report. Trip to Cluj, my first gig getting paid for dramatic writing, funny encounters with the Hungarian literary scene, shopping for Shea butter in Paris, my birthday (I actually had a party!), my first English lessons, etc. <br /><br />So let the sloppy new experimental blogging begin!Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-15588451730572481882007-11-21T01:19:00.000-08:002007-11-21T01:20:13.988-08:00I am Not DeadIn fact, I will be posting again soon! Stay tuned...Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-14575433531782674862007-09-06T09:30:00.001-07:002007-09-06T09:30:21.268-07:00BirthdayIt's Rick's Birthday! Show him some love at <a href="http://thelittleblackegg.blogspot.com">The Little Black Egg</a>.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IKtzwwhgpOU/RuAqmWZQMOI/AAAAAAAAAXE/JPLCo0qGCT0/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IKtzwwhgpOU/RuAqmWZQMOI/AAAAAAAAAXE/JPLCo0qGCT0/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107128815773036770" /></a>Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-70892006386455288552007-08-25T10:02:00.000-07:002007-08-27T09:23:50.184-07:00GrabbagPhew, this whole posting every day thing is exhausting! I hope you won't mind if I spend time preparing the next post, and leave you with some amusing randomness:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVM72wBcRIApW2XYmE6jyOzZgqqweV0x21RleD0-nWf8ZDTiqqutgi3Wvyq8pnSsYWS6dOvS4_cuH2OkIwQNQ1HpU3paAtoEMv1SWuzA_L4Pj0cK96TMfBaVSvkvkCxz7ZsKiSng/s1600-h/head.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVM72wBcRIApW2XYmE6jyOzZgqqweV0x21RleD0-nWf8ZDTiqqutgi3Wvyq8pnSsYWS6dOvS4_cuH2OkIwQNQ1HpU3paAtoEMv1SWuzA_L4Pj0cK96TMfBaVSvkvkCxz7ZsKiSng/s320/head.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102685301140150818" /></a><br />John the Baptist, Seville<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSdjTpvuyq3aJG66DEx2BYWf0TfCzqPQYA38IM0tJu7V4NBJBZVBtHlKJYKDTW0xUFLPzFcukQ2YCUkH6u1q1XBJ_D_d1BviICjKAbq512udzbLIwxHSfWQ59i61o1FHywNmhgUQ/s1600-h/golf.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSdjTpvuyq3aJG66DEx2BYWf0TfCzqPQYA38IM0tJu7V4NBJBZVBtHlKJYKDTW0xUFLPzFcukQ2YCUkH6u1q1XBJ_D_d1BviICjKAbq512udzbLIwxHSfWQ59i61o1FHywNmhgUQ/s320/golf.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102685288255248898" /></a><br />Mini-golf, Rosas<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMTT7FxYGRbmzbhwyVULYYecwHkyY27OF6sRpP3bCaBGcQDA9JmmgkjWSP0Kh1P2lV_QcAcKpuKKEaZQglFjDVbo65VLO-7QHurjkEy6WOkoRuY7F48ngdrxhwEZ5HH0UuxFV6A/s1600-h/unicorn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMTT7FxYGRbmzbhwyVULYYecwHkyY27OF6sRpP3bCaBGcQDA9JmmgkjWSP0Kh1P2lV_QcAcKpuKKEaZQglFjDVbo65VLO-7QHurjkEy6WOkoRuY7F48ngdrxhwEZ5HH0UuxFV6A/s320/unicorn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102686254622890562" /></a><br />Unicorns, Carcassone<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5t8AyuDLZHE1jJulFqtMN4-WYUOxJfJjM-UGaswdjbbGFAQzPeKRyDdiheDE_-yBGuEEvy-c6MSzAaoj9gtNEztLynPAmB8smSArGVyoj-2R4xv7iUv7Gmvj_0ygqv-k1n4Vwg/s1600-h/urinal.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5t8AyuDLZHE1jJulFqtMN4-WYUOxJfJjM-UGaswdjbbGFAQzPeKRyDdiheDE_-yBGuEEvy-c6MSzAaoj9gtNEztLynPAmB8smSArGVyoj-2R4xv7iUv7Gmvj_0ygqv-k1n4Vwg/s320/urinal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102685606082828850" /></a><br />Salvador Dali's Bidet, Cadaques<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuckMznk2RN-LZQon6rN8f3TEtblWvv-x6Td0XNgUMUr36o4iqjWuIlBqOK7E677YNrp2Okf3n7_aON34IlZqAlR62aLcqkQx5wgt7h8V6sdZ7fupXUCkvp6lJ11OioeQ3kusYBw/s1600-h/footstool.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuckMznk2RN-LZQon6rN8f3TEtblWvv-x6Td0XNgUMUr36o4iqjWuIlBqOK7E677YNrp2Okf3n7_aON34IlZqAlR62aLcqkQx5wgt7h8V6sdZ7fupXUCkvp6lJ11OioeQ3kusYBw/s320/footstool.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102685283960281586" /></a><br />Salvador Dali's Bathroom Footstool, Cadaques<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46X6qQ5iQJGpSlfHOdnU1whwJgxCRaIDKFvY04yYJfNHW7hFPnKi6P6fB97LX6G4Vat4y0EiN9YGy0x9nXr0HQmkjiIvHpmq-zkfEsOy_30Y8XXgWFbzxFHHg67bgsrXYiTxGXg/s1600-h/happypills.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46X6qQ5iQJGpSlfHOdnU1whwJgxCRaIDKFvY04yYJfNHW7hFPnKi6P6fB97LX6G4Vat4y0EiN9YGy0x9nXr0HQmkjiIvHpmq-zkfEsOy_30Y8XXgWFbzxFHHg67bgsrXYiTxGXg/s320/happypills.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102685288255248914" /></a><br />Happy Pills, Barcelona,Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33017940.post-41403001156941645562007-08-24T08:56:00.000-07:002007-08-24T09:10:44.253-07:00Corpus Christi in AndalusiaMom, Bip and I ended up in Spain during one of the most important feast days of the year: Corpus Christi. Now you know I adore a procession. So when I saw these floats being festooned inside Seville’s massive Gothic cathedral I knew I was in for a treat.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWRpe4WNu3J4m1aOdvj1ZElSWmnWcTmIRKoJNpL9mD57hzY3lgCuZcbPPG5Zn5iFwjsmGH_AlWPK9P84hRMGIg9YRjoPJB_ncz_l70COkkrmixVzxWjohl3qmF2Wo-bwXS1DO4A/s1600-h/float.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWRpe4WNu3J4m1aOdvj1ZElSWmnWcTmIRKoJNpL9mD57hzY3lgCuZcbPPG5Zn5iFwjsmGH_AlWPK9P84hRMGIg9YRjoPJB_ncz_l70COkkrmixVzxWjohl3qmF2Wo-bwXS1DO4A/s320/float.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297899385018626" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqr1ye1DOOKZbA0PVOq9amrCFO9o3V91hccJn4Y_u6x98cOV9JlNcKpZ69ZYfb-LSvCqNP4lGyXcbp1JO3ZjuRjCjGSq5IEFYj2dUG8AWiaP4d9TLw3bCnCEGPwn99GpGI6mWe3A/s1600-h/monstrance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqr1ye1DOOKZbA0PVOq9amrCFO9o3V91hccJn4Y_u6x98cOV9JlNcKpZ69ZYfb-LSvCqNP4lGyXcbp1JO3ZjuRjCjGSq5IEFYj2dUG8AWiaP4d9TLw3bCnCEGPwn99GpGI6mWe3A/s320/monstrance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102298582284818786" /></a><br />Early Corpus Christi morning I got up early and rushed down to the parade route. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJokjd0pbW1RJhJKICGDbxOLI5oNaM8kh3VJu_aI1shcGg_DdgoZMzhgULoQaaAC4yubwz7usOJw-nysasJ9mwacjoKyt6TF_Lxv4br7m826I-IpU98Liu2YklSsKYF9YS7_g8w/s1600-h/nuns.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJokjd0pbW1RJhJKICGDbxOLI5oNaM8kh3VJu_aI1shcGg_DdgoZMzhgULoQaaAC4yubwz7usOJw-nysasJ9mwacjoKyt6TF_Lxv4br7m826I-IpU98Liu2YklSsKYF9YS7_g8w/s320/nuns.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102298586579786098" /></a><br />The procession winds through the labyrinthine streets of the old city. The city had stretched awnings over the narrow alleys…<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9-RimIsw7xhBIkSUJBPmlB3YH4SYvbanysiCOG6zGzAomNXxaTSd852OzTEYa0G3i29b-Hp2_1s65pyk4dPmYHQa6ft66q8idfRljbvWavd5G6Zf3huF4M2Mdz8AaHo7QNdZVA/s1600-h/streets1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9-RimIsw7xhBIkSUJBPmlB3YH4SYvbanysiCOG6zGzAomNXxaTSd852OzTEYa0G3i29b-Hp2_1s65pyk4dPmYHQa6ft66q8idfRljbvWavd5G6Zf3huF4M2Mdz8AaHo7QNdZVA/s320/streets1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102299260889651650" /></a><br />…the balconies were draped with colorful shawls…<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMb0I_HsOkCVUyAViJfUJKe0tP4yV4t_LK2rJzJLHV__88oRb5T1tnjBFp4hVIz_n9bOpU9uc4KEbtqywi8P5RNOc-GabaWLbJFoKqAmL-ycO_oKNStqdq-qZ8swseoQgfxxynw/s1600-h/streets2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMb0I_HsOkCVUyAViJfUJKe0tP4yV4t_LK2rJzJLHV__88oRb5T1tnjBFp4hVIz_n9bOpU9uc4KEbtqywi8P5RNOc-GabaWLbJFoKqAmL-ycO_oKNStqdq-qZ8swseoQgfxxynw/s320/streets2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102299265184618962" /></a><br />…and the cobblestones were strewn with aromatic herbs (nice touch!) <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vVLS_56fZcrhBjRPrUuyGE3EBe4wpEPMMWBaSC4lxrCGH4OgpHvMXFnehm36VXeuDvR8x55E3WvO5w-FURAj0uZ70tIK2A8RholSmm4sq91CvXUerXeHjDu9wAOqThB-Pylylw/s1600-h/herbs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vVLS_56fZcrhBjRPrUuyGE3EBe4wpEPMMWBaSC4lxrCGH4OgpHvMXFnehm36VXeuDvR8x55E3WvO5w-FURAj0uZ70tIK2A8RholSmm4sq91CvXUerXeHjDu9wAOqThB-Pylylw/s320/herbs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297912269920546" /></a><br />Sevillanos in their Sunday best strode the streets, carrying embroidered banners, silver-topped staffs, and giant candles. Tho Thpanith!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXnp08MhjgZ3IQ1YncazlGfCIb_hhczvHpjyv9TpNmDscxpdlWyvLoZ5_r0rWFl2j3kZPgJ_qqFruYbpltIco3AEfkF5RQYvwwuPc4sXd1hePSj6wRpMRoy5UvtXOsXiQF8mAFw/s1600-h/procession1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXnp08MhjgZ3IQ1YncazlGfCIb_hhczvHpjyv9TpNmDscxpdlWyvLoZ5_r0rWFl2j3kZPgJ_qqFruYbpltIco3AEfkF5RQYvwwuPc4sXd1hePSj6wRpMRoy5UvtXOsXiQF8mAFw/s320/procession1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102298590874753410" /></a><br />Immense, elaborately carved wooden sculptures lumbered through the streets… <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vOp6c5ZSbGu5ZvSnwW_B9b3g940AmXrJv37xEaPuQuCncxaJlzXM1C82Hk8B5F5W-blh6LRIUGPx-KgCoF3EIMnsu3TEd-k4071Vjro_X4VWogvfOIMGW2bZukaAXl6KxM2OaA/s1600-h/procession2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vOp6c5ZSbGu5ZvSnwW_B9b3g940AmXrJv37xEaPuQuCncxaJlzXM1C82Hk8B5F5W-blh6LRIUGPx-KgCoF3EIMnsu3TEd-k4071Vjro_X4VWogvfOIMGW2bZukaAXl6KxM2OaA/s320/procession2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102298595169720722" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0p7nZBARijuXeeImEx5m0CMvIsDF8l_CqWJffSCU1XCusAZHF8Ttlu4pZvvkTFWWHvYu2JAxOHBOphavppGTjluasOz4sS5Jb07NLa0dfZOAFhc3Il4760Fes9gZOrK3lhdpaw/s1600-h/procession3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0p7nZBARijuXeeImEx5m0CMvIsDF8l_CqWJffSCU1XCusAZHF8Ttlu4pZvvkTFWWHvYu2JAxOHBOphavppGTjluasOz4sS5Jb07NLa0dfZOAFhc3Il4760Fes9gZOrK3lhdpaw/s320/procession3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102299252299717026" /></a><br />…towards scattered bright altars.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQdiQebpxn-lrZ-wi8eVTbIDKRuY1PkRUR3C3hVpDRqWK-uIwKNYMcrpwoDPn_jynM6ZtjmK4vI4PP-HtHkxp65KWOExDC-8qcv-Tn0uN0_t3l1Lin_5rhCUqwLzcIborRkRfCw/s1600-h/altar1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQdiQebpxn-lrZ-wi8eVTbIDKRuY1PkRUR3C3hVpDRqWK-uIwKNYMcrpwoDPn_jynM6ZtjmK4vI4PP-HtHkxp65KWOExDC-8qcv-Tn0uN0_t3l1Lin_5rhCUqwLzcIborRkRfCw/s320/altar1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297302384564402" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQpd-VRC6KuV_VMPUb0lNY509IfmeVfEIZn40qhwPGDfG0eHjbJtacaEN6WUA6tDuS8aujEsL9Pqi0WmKsJLtvruFFqv5c_kD0SMd7bY1uzlsUEbWkrRY-PO5hZseLhwQkRyIqA/s1600-h/altar2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQpd-VRC6KuV_VMPUb0lNY509IfmeVfEIZn40qhwPGDfG0eHjbJtacaEN6WUA6tDuS8aujEsL9Pqi0WmKsJLtvruFFqv5c_kD0SMd7bY1uzlsUEbWkrRY-PO5hZseLhwQkRyIqA/s320/altar2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297310974499010" /></a><br /><br />Later in the day, we traveled to Grenada, where flamenco gear is de rigeur for Corpus Christi. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BxzO4LrPoLkPUJMAx8xLZXplo3Fk7BwZQSY667Y7up_3IdgWyVxiClbD42tU2aEHot3nVfp5P0LVRiJVmxZpPLgZ_b5GtvYIR_PCbPBzPI1XJL3d4vvT0kpl4ZW4X5GSiBG3Tg/s1600-h/kid1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BxzO4LrPoLkPUJMAx8xLZXplo3Fk7BwZQSY667Y7up_3IdgWyVxiClbD42tU2aEHot3nVfp5P0LVRiJVmxZpPLgZ_b5GtvYIR_PCbPBzPI1XJL3d4vvT0kpl4ZW4X5GSiBG3Tg/s320/kid1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297920859855154" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0Q-s4BB09BWmvU9LC-GzjDL06r6IO4o7TJ54Q-83IyQ_kL4W3VBjEMcaBTEwO24-nrZr5RtL_JyMbYvZ8v-IAfzuBRZnYPoG_gA1EYhSOgFlGRkyG6QUFeu5m4Jp-7GkCzxZuA/s1600-h/kid2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0Q-s4BB09BWmvU9LC-GzjDL06r6IO4o7TJ54Q-83IyQ_kL4W3VBjEMcaBTEwO24-nrZr5RtL_JyMbYvZ8v-IAfzuBRZnYPoG_gA1EYhSOgFlGRkyG6QUFeu5m4Jp-7GkCzxZuA/s320/kid2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297925154822466" /></a><br />There was a procession here, too. Check this immense Last Supper float, which must have been at fifteen feet long. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJdOQEzt1N8B80Hv3F8mgrnk4JDFUyWQPdNzCvsS8QAJD1_6bMXmPgNkBsxOIjFE5Q0KCqeuw4schnra74bQePlCSW1osUyQy8fkuzVh8_OdJGOk9-acO9bE-Hu3S5ZI8aZ-3eA/s1600-h/lastsupper.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJdOQEzt1N8B80Hv3F8mgrnk4JDFUyWQPdNzCvsS8QAJD1_6bMXmPgNkBsxOIjFE5Q0KCqeuw4schnra74bQePlCSW1osUyQy8fkuzVh8_OdJGOk9-acO9bE-Hu3S5ZI8aZ-3eA/s320/lastsupper.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102298577989851474" /></a><br />As night fell, crowds promenaded the brightly lit streets. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vsbY9srHcutYPlxihFb47fYAsKLI06H87iyr70M0aG-JoTq6Ec9hUSJzmSudRqsF_CnI9LOW0LBpBPmRSnB_cFUUA1pPjA3qjL2vQSe22cpHfeRYOPX8DJvqVMmFycYMD7PCqw/s1600-h/granadastreet.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vsbY9srHcutYPlxihFb47fYAsKLI06H87iyr70M0aG-JoTq6Ec9hUSJzmSudRqsF_CnI9LOW0LBpBPmRSnB_cFUUA1pPjA3qjL2vQSe22cpHfeRYOPX8DJvqVMmFycYMD7PCqw/s320/granadastreet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297903679985938" /></a><br />Satire is also a part of Grenada’s Corpus Christi celebrations. In one downtown square, the crowd perused an incredibly long string of cartoons lampooning local traditions and politics. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWNvjtr3DjvIuqXxKs1xY2um1QpfCHhVwu4dKNXU8ru5ib7uE0P82xApIEis2CUQ4mSJfMu7rpskS5XAF17E9eP661NF8hD838i_QH_X_EfOB0mG5GLLXAs-zyT2bzQemtC-Sfw/s1600-h/satire.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWNvjtr3DjvIuqXxKs1xY2um1QpfCHhVwu4dKNXU8ru5ib7uE0P82xApIEis2CUQ4mSJfMu7rpskS5XAF17E9eP661NF8hD838i_QH_X_EfOB0mG5GLLXAs-zyT2bzQemtC-Sfw/s320/satire.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102299256594684338" /></a><br />My sister translated several of these for me. There were a lot of poems insulting Seville. Go figure.<br /><br />On a tent-stage set up in the Plaza del Carmen, a choir of flamenco grannies sang about the beauties of Grenada. After the day’s concerts were over, the sound system came on and hyper little flamenco girls swarmed onstage to play dancer. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3bWCqv3Tf2oeEAooC88kB6ENcjwHk9uQzur_TbrlUjdu7fKOjEiMMf0GZRdK4w9yfc7JNBuWG0t8A_cQ6twBRK7VNSl3nrKBqFtKhPPgauKBQlB3AJcUht6gVHkb36Fwuswcww/s1600-h/dancers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3bWCqv3Tf2oeEAooC88kB6ENcjwHk9uQzur_TbrlUjdu7fKOjEiMMf0GZRdK4w9yfc7JNBuWG0t8A_cQ6twBRK7VNSl3nrKBqFtKhPPgauKBQlB3AJcUht6gVHkb36Fwuswcww/s320/dancers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297315269466322" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvoII5rJobDokMogD9HEfuhGyjoy3_VFYD5hkQuvSCQ-tcMOEZstNepB1fDCLYR1mZ5FIbDa-BRxVgMD2rZa6YeTcACuzctHGXxQF3WzSYc05RS8UKPGibFfoE6zHSgVSOFOlLg/s1600-h/dancers2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvoII5rJobDokMogD9HEfuhGyjoy3_VFYD5hkQuvSCQ-tcMOEZstNepB1fDCLYR1mZ5FIbDa-BRxVgMD2rZa6YeTcACuzctHGXxQF3WzSYc05RS8UKPGibFfoE6zHSgVSOFOlLg/s320/dancers2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297319564433634" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXX6mnppKC7bcts1WD7nLs8OEKDWytbdZoxspbBkXaeC7BEivHc8gIx91pJLF_SJ5qPtyummameQosxlcYhHyX3EBpZwuYsOp76bXiNRAtaeDHmok5187Y1xLTIeC6bgLXE3dNQ/s1600-h/dancers3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXX6mnppKC7bcts1WD7nLs8OEKDWytbdZoxspbBkXaeC7BEivHc8gIx91pJLF_SJ5qPtyummameQosxlcYhHyX3EBpZwuYsOp76bXiNRAtaeDHmok5187Y1xLTIeC6bgLXE3dNQ/s320/dancers3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102297323859400946" /></a><br />I have video of many of these kids dancing; I’m gonna edit together a bunch of my shaky footage and post a youtube Corpus Christi video soon.Ganchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12954246221510868301noreply@blogger.com2