A Simmering Evening in Budapest

The pot was boiling and bubbling all day, the simple broth became more delicious smelling with each passing hour, meat bathed first, sending suds of fat and blood to the surface, which potatoes broke while splashing in, followed by carrots, onions, garlic, peppers, tomatoes, spices came bringing a paint-like consistency. The red took on swirls of thick deep orange, the colors one might find in an oil painting to compliment a black and white room of a sunset over a sea, with one lone shadowed ship sailing atop these calm waves of fire, I didn't want to eat it, so beautiful were the colors. But the stomach of a cyclist cannot appreciate art, in fact, it rarely allows for manners of any kind, and in the beginning of this trip I looked on with the others in horror as my stomach pillaged grocery stores and kitchens, I knew I had to take responsibility for the monster within, but knew not how and blushed deeply as I shoveled a 4th or 5th portion down my throat. I have now gotten used to its perpetually impoverished state and attempt to simply accept and laugh, and in this manner I took part in destroying the masterpiece before us, marginally able to listen to the bouquet of tonal inflections around me. Spanish flirtations from a couple from uruguay, hungarian bickering (for everything in Hungarian sounds like bickering) from a family across the table, accented German, one hungarian, one swedish, jump-roping in and out of understanding- all complimentarily pitched and in a good tempo to accompany the true concerto of my attention- the food too slowly entering my stomach. I felt the soloist was underprepared and no matter how many notes he played, how many bites I ate, never could he catch up, become full. They chattered amiably, as if the huge pot of stew could possibly feed us all, as if the impending doom- the bare black bottom of the pot- was nothing to worry about, as if the pot had even filled them already! But slowly the panic died down as my belly begrudgingly puffed up and went to sleep, I was full, and the pot's bottom remained clothed by the beautiful painting and we were all herded into a few cars, it was time to dance!
The danshus, dance house, glowed in content as we walked up, the band was already sawing away! Hungarian bands are often comprised of one violin, 4 strings, two back up violas with 3 strings, and a bass with 3 strings. The 4 stringed violin plays the melody, the first back up viola plays basically only the on beat with the bass, and the other plays basically only the off beats, and all with great bows of gusto. This boom chuck boom chuck starting slow and steam rolling ever faster. Hungarian folk music is really just like old time. It is all about the slight subtle variations to this rhythm which, without paying REALLY close attention to the nuance and complexities, sounds like a sledge hammer moronically pounding against your temple, I felt right at home!
Then gradually the dancers started to appear. Mostly a couple dance, but sometimes 2 couples would join to do some hopping together. We (Hanna and I) joined in and were led through the spinning and stomping madness which filled me with hilarious joy, to be circling round and round, always faster aboard the enthusiastic train. Sometimes we would just walk in a circle and our leader would slap himself on the thigh or foot quite loudly, so Hanna and I of course preceded to try the same, hopping and slapping and having a grand time. But they all sort of stared at us vigorously slapping ourselves and we realized that none of the local women participated in this particular part of the dance. In the couples, it would always be the man quite unchivalrously abandoning the women to slap himself as long as he please, she looking on awkwardly in the middle of the dance floor, until he graciously grabs her and resumes their partnership. As the night got more heated with more dancers, the women were rendered obsolete, as it was really just out of kindness that they were even allowed to dance, an the men started their brawny parade of slapping. One after another, men would take the floor and with chest protruding and nose high, would stomp and slap with the band, raising his legs and feet making lots of noise, demonstrating his all superior manliness by flapping like a hen. I think I would have been more enchanted had the women any means of expressing themselves, or way to shine on their own, to display their own skill or strength, but they were only there to provide audience to the testostronic tournament.
My host was one of these women, and I asked her about it and the machismo in general and she said that it was absolutely abominable, even from a local perspective, and that she has tried to forbid her daughter from ever marrying a Hungarian man. Even to her boyfriend, who is apparently not that bad, she could not say for such a long time that he was doing a step wrong in the dance. She and all the women in their community found it slightly awkward to dance with him and she finally gathered up the courage to tell him while we were in Budapest. After they had a huge fight about it, he was only convinced after calling a man to come there at 11pm from half an hour away, to prove that she was right.. and just that she had been right had put him in such a fowl mood that he could barely talk to us when we came home. The machismo is so deeply rooted here in Eastern Europe, but especially in Hungary, it was so blatant that to slide over it with a smile felt like slapping all the women around me with a dirty rag. It came not only in such obvious displays as this, but in how free they felt to interrupt women, to assume their superior knowledge in anything from directions (which they often didn't actually know) to preventing me from repairing my bike, they had to do it, without any experience or information OR prompting, I knew what to do very well, did not ask for assistance and these men in their bullheaded assertiveness on several occasions really messed up my bike. They also tried to play power games with me and get me to do things against my will because they knew better, and I really shouldn't be in a tent, I must come home with them, don't be silly transformed into my being ridiculous, to stupid, to impertinent, to impossible when their games don't work and they swear at my back as I ride off into the woods to set up my tent, alone and content.
I do wish I could end my negativity there, but it got worse when the band took a break and the bass player came to enjoy his drink in the company of these two interested looking foreign girls, who happened to be debating the usage of the word nigger with two swedish guys. Stumbling into the conversation the bass player was delighted at the mention of black people and seized the opportunity to rattle off his racist jokes which got progressively more and more appalling. He was shocked that we didn't know these jokes, and somehow oblivious of our lack of laughter.. and my fumes. I flared up and he sort of laughed about how he wasn't racist or anything, but.. and told another! Oh how my stomach retched as the others around him laughed, and remembering other men here who have tried to pull out this old, disproven, Nazi research about genetic racial differences and intelligence, and knowing that police in Hungary have the right to, without any reason, pad down anyone they see fit, and knowing black friends that have been searched so many times, where most white people never, and the impossibility of the task to show this culture how backwards some parts of it are, and that even as I raged, I was only seen as one crazy lady to be quickly forgotten or merely a joke made out of to follow the one about the nigger boy. How to fight?!
Well our way was to show a bit of our own muscle by taking a turn playing some music, after asking of course. And we played with healthy power woman stomping, we sang loudly and proudly, we performed with joy and confidence and used this as means of displaying our gender's independence and ability. And while the music was appreciated and there was great applause, I don't know if the message was conveyed. I will continue to try these subtle maneuvers, and I think more and more I am becoming comfortable with not even being subtle. My anger has been simmering this whole trip. It started as an idea, a simple broth, and more and more experiences have been turning my yellow discomfort to an orange frustration to a deep blood red rage. The stew is now boiling with power and energy and hot as it is, it is delicious, and I don't want to waste any of it!  I will try not to be unnecessarily rude, but I don't mind now being called crazy or even having things become antagonistic. I have had enough smiling and stepping back. Even if it does nothing, even if the racism and sexism remain utterly unchanged, it means so much to me to not ignore, for that perpetrates. I don't want to hide this fire to be polite, I don't want to belittle my strength. I am trying to stay aware of manipulation, of the slippery ways men have been taking power from me, and I am holding my ground. I have found my footing and I won't fall.

Classy Clifftop Cloggers Croatian Carousel

Disheartened and disheveled, Hanna and I seated ourselves in the closest cafe to where we had just spent the last hour, playing and singing to a lazy street of disinterested tourists. The waitress seemed a bit less than eager to welcome these a bit less than posh costumers, one with a dress of patches, the other with a dripping scarf round her head (it was incredibly hot, conspicuous means for self cooling were not shunned by us). But entitled as we were to slip in to sit and sip, we did so and with dignified pomp  ordered ourselves two espresso (the cheapest thing on the menu), and thus commenced the discussion as to what to do with ourselves outside the Schengen Zone, as my visa was soon to expire, and up stepped the balkans, each as proud suitors for our attention. Macedonia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania all made their alluring offers, but one victor arose over them all, offering his mountains, his coast, his cafes and restaurants full of tourists eager to give us lots of money- Croatia. But if we were to be a folk duo then we would need a name! And it was as we counted out the cost of our coffee in coins with a lesser value than pennies, and filled our water bottles in the bathroom sink, and applied more binding to my now more tape than cloth banjo bag- that the name Classy Clifftop Cloggers was born, but it needed to be tested on the street. With the name we both stepped into a new persona, that had confidence, had legitimacy, we had a name, and in the exact same conditions- same day, same spot, maybe 40 minutes later, we made at least 3 times as much more money and attracted huge crowds of people- the name was a keeper and we made ready for Croatia. 

With a tune and a thumb, the mountains- winding and climbing with villages and farms for knees, goats charitably pooping beneath peach trees, trucks amiably tooting as curves tightly tease, sun beaming benign at the wind, birds and bees- finally parted to reveal a most glorious sight, scintillating with azure delight, embracing her island children who rise up like little cows, an undulating pasture of colossal green beasts, who, wooden-headed allow well dressed ants to clamber all around their beautiful haunches, building resorts, banks and malls. But before reaching the mesmerizing mediterranean, an ancient city swells up, with roofs of red and roads of white, roots dating back to the 6th century BC when it was the Greek colony Aspalathos, but the architecture dating back to 305AD, the palace of Roman Emperor Diocletion, who abandoned his political post for this seaside utopia- Split, Croatia. 

The city built inside his palace is a labyrinth of milky stone, and if you find the right entrance, you could get stuck in this maze of narrow pathways where you have no choices of direction, no intersection, a claustrophobic winding between these tall, antediluvian walls, until you are finally released into a courtyard draped in lavish vines, laden with nearly glowing purple flowers.

Between these noble walls, a curious sound joined the operatic fowls and elegant chimes of wine glasses, it ricocheted conspicuously jolly, with all the exuberance of a shaggy, muddy dog playing tag atop an invaluable persian rug- the sawing of a fiddle laughing with the twang of a banjo, "We're the Classy Clifftop Cloggers and we're here to play you some old time tunes!" Beguiled by the crowds we gathered, restaurants, cafes, even lounges invited us to come and play for their 'clients', only to realize too late that what they heard was what they would get. For their subdued terrace full of ritzy tourists on their romantic dalmatian getaway we stomped, and the croatian couples attempting to whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears were thwarted by these two hillbilly girls singing boisterously about chicken! 

But the revelry had to come to an end when my accomplice had to fly back to real life in Sweden, and left me and my thumb to get back to Budapest, Rocinante, and fairy Solitaria.