Category Archives: Traveling

Beaufort and Gilbert

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On Wednesday we went into Beaufort, which is less than ten miles from Dataw Island. We took a historical carriage ride tour of the town and learned a lot about the area. Plus the Belgium draft horse, Gilbert (who plowed fields up in Amish country Ohio as a youngster) was absolutely adorable. He moved about as slow as southern molasses, but had a relentless amount of charm.

Brief history:

The area around what is now Beaufort was actually the second European-discovered parcel of North America (after Ponce de Leon’s St. Augustine), though it has inhabited for nearly two millennia before that by American Indians. Beaufort is a French name (bow-fort), though most Beaufortonians pronounce it the good ol’ fashion southern way (bew-fert).

Plantations are far and wide here. And before the Civil War, all landowners grew Sea Island Cotton (courtesy of their slaves), which was, at the time, the second most profitable crop in the world (second only to opium). It was longer, silkier and finer than even the best Egyptian cottons. Of course a few decades after the Civil War, the fields that hadn’t been burned were eaten up by the boll wheevil, and the crop went extinct.

The town and surrounding areas were quite rich, due to all that cotton. But then South Carolina seceded from the Union and the Civil War began. Beaufort was lucky, however. With advanced warning of incoming Union warships, the whole town up and left (the newspapers up north called it the Great Skedaddle). So when the Union soldiers arrived in 1861, there was no point destroying the town. They used it as a medical base and marina. And a few years later, when Sherman went on his burning rampage, there was no point burning a Union-controlled town. So Beaufort is still one of the most nicely preserved antebellum towns.

We took a lot of pictures of the great Live Oak trees and their sweeping Spanish moss, the wonderful antebellum architecture and of course, the star of the day: Mr. Gilbert.

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Thanksgiving in Lowcountry

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I’m sitting at the edge of the marsh on Dataw Island, South Carolina. The tide is just retreating and in the distance, in deep water, three shrimp boats lower their nets. It’s raining, but only hard enough to unhinge a few leaves, annoy the alligators and disturb the piles of oyster shells that the raccoons dragged in last night, from the marsh, and struck open with rocks to access the silky nectar inside.

We arrived to my aunt’s home among the great sea islands of South Carolina yesterday. We’ll be here through Thanksgiving, then spend a week in Hilton Head.

Even though I grew up a true blue Yankee, my family has spent a lot of time in the last fifteen years down South. And this part of the country, with its straight-trunk wild-haired palmettos, humid breezes and tidal waters is what I miss the most when I’m away from the States. It’s true I’ve come to romanticize the South, which probably really set-in when I lived in Georgia, but I can’t help it. I’ve lived in a lot of places in my life, but my heart is really at home here.

New York City

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Woody Allen said, “There is no question that there is an unseen world. The problem is, how far is it from midtown and how late is it open?”

Last week, Gyorgyi and I were in NYC. We stayed with my awesome cousin, Brandy in her Gramercy apartment. We experienced a true, NYC Halloween, toured from the Bowery to Spanish Harlem. We saw the fantastic Addams Family on Broadway, calculated inches in the tenements, stalked Jennifer Aniston, ate bagels on a tour bus, and experienced as many must do’s (like Shake Shack, Gray’s and Dim Sum in Chinatown) and we could.

New York City hides so many unseen alleys that I wish we had a year to investigate. But in the time that we did visit, we certainly felt the prowess of a super-city. The quiet and the vocal. Times Square and Curry Hill. An elevator to the 80th floor and a simple, Sunday dumpling.

I’m a European blogger, so maybe I have no say whatsoever. But if you’re considering going, go. Eat, explore, indulge. Walk fast across the avenues and slow through the parks. Go to NYC as Kurt Vonnegut says: “…to be born again.”

(click on the picture for our NYC slideshow)

A Week in Nessebar, Bulgaria

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Györgyi and I just got back from a week in Nessebar, which is a little beach town on the Bulgarian Black Sea. Though Old Nessebar is a World Heritage Site, New Nessebar’s “South Beach” area is relatively modern resort town. We stayed at the Mirage of Nessebar Luxury Apartment Suites, which were actually very nice apartments right on the beach, adjacent to the Mirage Hotel.

We had a relaxing week lounging at the pool, exploring the town and nearby resort areas, drinking Bulgarian wines and beers, and at least trying to prepare some local food in our kitchen (we ate some kind of lamb meatballs from the local shop that were insanely good!)

Though Bulgaria is a bit raw compared to Western or Central Europe, the staff at the Mirage was incredibly nice and accommodating. The driver who ferried us to and from the airport told us that over half of the guests are Russian, and most of the rest are Bulgarian, Norwegian and a few Brits. If you’ve never spent an afternoon at the seashore with a hundred or so Russians, well, I’ll just say it’s quite colorful for a somewhat reserved American! In the larger resort areas, like Sunny Beach, there is a perpetual Spring Break quality mixed with that somewhat icky post-Soviet free market gold rush feeling. But this can be avoided by staying at a hotel outside of Sunny Beach, such as in Nessebar, or somewhere along the northern coast.

The trip itself was quite inexpensive. The apartment was only 50 Euros a night and the local currency, lev, buys you a little more than a dollar would on a vacation to many resort towns in the US (which is great if you live in Europe and are spending Euros or Pounds). And the drinks were pretty cheap. The two beers above cost a total of 5 levs, which is about 3.50 USD for the pair. One important tip: if you do book a trip to the Bulgarian Black Sea, avoid the tourist clog by visiting in early June or early September.

Though we’re glad to be back home, we had a really unique and relaxing time in Bulgaria. The trip highlights included the great air-conditioned apartment, the Bulgarian version of crepes that were filled with Nutella, the Byzantine ruins of Old Town, an ice cold Kamenitza at the shore, and on the last night, the fat Harvest moon rising over the Black Sea.

Click below for a video collage of our escapades!

Long Weekend in Békésszentandrás

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Békésszentandrás is a village that is situated along the Hármas Körös River in central eastern Hungary. The village was inhabited about a thousand years ago by ancient Hungarians, though it was depopulated (to borrow a word from archeology) by the Mongols and then resettled a few hundred years later. Of course those settlements were only up for a few decades before being depopulated again by the Tartars. But in typical Hungarian fashion, the villagers came back and moved on with their lives, resettling again by the 18th century, after a young aristocrat bought the territory for about $150. The village has only had public utilities since the 1990s, but you wouldn’t know it from driving through the touristy city center.

Now it’s sort of a weekend vacation spot. Nowhere near as posh or expensive as the Lake Balaton region, Békésszentandrás is still a sleepy little village where weekend homes and fishing huts line the river. Gyorgyi and I, along with 8 friends (Edi, Csabi, Andi, Gabi, Erika, Dezso, Anita and Tamas) spent the end of last week and the beginning of this one at a great little house on the river. We swam, paddle-boated, cooked outside, road bikes and scooters and had a lovely, relaxing mini-vacation.

Seven and Hét

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Based on the fantastic recommendation from fellow American ex-pat and Spanish sojourner, Kelly Holland, and the folks @Tripbase, I’m presenting #My7Links. Well, that’s not quite true. I’m actually presenting my 14 because I have a difficult time following rules (fallen Catholic + poet MFA). The truth is that three years abroad has opened my bones. In the last few months I have been longing for America, suffering a little travel fatigue. But this project helped me realize just how much wonder expresses itself in travel, and how much I love where these years have taken me. I broke the rules, true, but I have chosen 7 in-country Hungarian links and 7 posts from other travels.

And I will also have to nominate fellow Ohioan Sarah Tracey  for #My7Links who is currently translating her way through Firenze! As we say in Hungarian: Jó mulatást! (Have a great time!)

Hungary:

1. On Not Being a Tourist Anymore. Budapest in its quietest form.  Curling between the neo-gothic arches are the aching gypsy melodies. Domes, spires, dolomite ramparts as common as carbons.

2.  Nograd. You slowly wake and dress, leave the guesthouse for the main house, where the mother, Marcsi, has set out a beautiful breakfast of breads and cheeses.  There is goose liver and ham to spread, a variety of juices and teas.  You’re not used to drinking 2.8% milk, and enjoy the smooth texture of the hot chocolate.

3. The Flood.  On Saturday the Danube finally spilled over the rakpart and inched its way toward the banks of Pest

4. Tokaj: Wine of Kings and Queens and You and Me. Nota Bene:  Reni did NOT short glass us (this is something my parents will be very glad to hear).  And though we were taking lots of notes and asking good questions, by the time we hit our 8th pour, we were pretty sauced.

5.  Old 5. As the famous Hungarian bard, József Attila wrote, The chatter/ of their teeth they give to the winter. On the outskirts of town, just beyond the limits, you’ll sometimes see prostitutes signaling for truckers, or even worse, the big British corporate grocery chains that have bullied their way into even the poorest villages.

6. Summer Rides.  I have a feeling that throughout the history of Budapest, the square in front of the basilica probably hasn’t seen that many Marin Co. California beach cruisers like the one Györgyi rides. It looks good here, though.

7. Budapest Zoo.  (Györgyi’s favorite post). So here’s the deal with the Budapest Zoo:  Whatever animals probably won’t kill or chew on you, you can pet and feed.

And Beyond:

1. Plitvice Lakes National Park, Croatia:   “The outside/ can catch you child./ Hurry.”  It wasn’t really until then that this region had a form.

2. Ireland: City bus tour, the Guinness Storehouse and a delicious pint at the gravity bar.  We skipped the tour at the Jameson distillery but didn’t skip the bar.

3. Salzburg:  I mean how many thousands and thousands of dollars went into that MFA, and “fairy tale” is the best I can come up with?  But it’s either that or blank page.  And blank page won’t suffice either because I want to express clearly how incredible our weekend was in Salzburg.  So it will have to do:  Salzburg was a fairy tale.

4. Stuhleck, Austria: Sun so bright you almost couldn’t feel the freezing temperatures because your skin was too busy filling itself with rays. From the lifts, the trees looked exactly how I would imagine them in ancient, northern forests. These evergreens look hardy, for sure, survivors in temperatures and altitudes where other plant life just can’t make it.

5. Marbella, Spain: We left for old Marbella at about 10 a.m.  It’s a short ten-minute drive west down the Costa del Sol, which is lined by luxury homes and palm trees. We got there early enough to find a good parking place in town, probably because it was a solid four hours before the Spanish like to eat their lunch.

6. Bovec, Slovenia:We ate lunch halfway down on the stoney riverbanks. Brown bread, salami and paramasan sandwiches with lemon and peach tea.  We discovered cookies later in the trip, which Györgyi asked Vrana to give to her midway threw the rapids (she likes cookies).

 7. Tuscany: Florence isn’t just shiny cars and ice creams as little boys think. It’s the human form divine. The body beautiful. And you – yes, you – could be part of that world. To make, to create. To live as those old artists did… is to share a part in the divine plan.

You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.

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This weekend I had to go to Serbia. It’s something I have done many times before, only this time I knew that I was at the last day of my 90 day grace period for staying inside of Europe before I needed to leave.

I was very tense as we approached the Hungarian border crossing. I thought it was because we had already had an unbelievably busy week–organizing a contract ceremony and trying to finish a 140-page engineering document translation in 4 days.

The border guard looked at my passport.  And he looked again. And then he started flipping through the nearly stamp-full pages.

Gyorgyi and I both knew something was wrong.

He asked how long I had been in Europe. I said almost 90 days. He then informed me that while I can stay in the EU for 90 days, it can only be in six month increments. I didn’t know. Then he took our passports and asked us to pull the car over to the side area and wait.

As we were waiting at the side of the border station I couldn’t stop shaking. Gyorgyi sent a text message to everyone that we knew, asking for help. I don’t recall ever having this reaction to stress in my whole life and for some reason I just couldn’t stop myself. It was as if I had been outside in the snow all afternoon.

Fifteen minutes later the guard called us into the office.

Seeing that we were visibly upset, he said a common Hungarian expression to Gyorgyi, that “he wanted the cabbage to remain and the goat to still get full.”

See, he had just come on duty.  He didn’t want to have to do too much paperwork. The kind of paperwork that would be required for the deportation van to come and pick me up and drive me to the airport and send me on the first plane back to America. Or maybe just drop me off in the wheat fields near Belgrade.

Then he gave me a $15 fine and sent me onto the Serbian border. I was, after all, out of the EU in that dead zone that separates the two borders.

Gyorgyi’s brother, Zoltan, was the first to respond to the text message. It was 8 a.m then.  He was on the other line with a Hungarian Admiral. We were 10 cars from the Serbian border and he told us that no matter what, do not go into Serbia. That he wouldn’t be able to help if we crossed the border.

I don’t know if the move was quite legal, but Gyorgyi did a U-turn in the dead zone and we headed back to the Hungarian border where a different guard stamped my passport and I re-entered the EU.

Ultimately the whole thing is my fault. After I stopped teaching, I should have started my residency application again. Because I never spend more than 3 months in the EU at a time, I thought, incorrectly, that I didn’t need to do it. I was wrong. The printer is currently spitting out the residency forms again.

I guess the point of all of this is how even in Europe, which is essentially borderless, the border as both a real thing and as an idea is still very scary. When I was a kid, the border was the wall between East and West Germany. There were good guys and bad guys and a border was something that people snuck over at night amid gunshots. Now, perhaps, to most Americans the “border” is the line that separates Mexico and America, the difference in many cases between living and dying, being with your family or being alone.

I won’t compare my situation to those. But the truth is that Gyorgyi can’t live in my country and it’s difficult for me to stay in hers. No matter where I go or what I do, the border is always in my mind.

Csongrád and Travel Fatigue

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Last weekend we went to Csongrád in SE Hungary on the Tisza River. I think I have a little bit of travel fatigue because I wasn’t really feeling interested. 10th-century town? Seen it. Ruins of an 11th-century Benedictine monastery? Yawn. Secessionist-style streets? Nothing new. Cute old people riding a tandem bike past beautifully maintained parks? How long is this going to take because I want to catch up on Real Housewives of New York City.

But I suppose that these little towns have a way of charming even the most fatigued traveller.

Csongrád was founded many, many moons ago by Árpád’s son. Árpád was the Grand Prince of the Magyars who led the ancient, Hungarian tribes into the Carpathian basin. His son, Ete founded Csongrád, which by comparison seems a little ho-hum in terms of accomplishments. But still, he didn’t do a bad job. St. Stephen made it a county seat and it didn’t end up too worse for wear during the Mongol invasion. Later, in the 18th century, Csongrád was a pretty happening fishing center.

We walked around for a little bit, admiring the old signs. The one above is an old ice cream sign. And like the sign, the town seemed a little bit stuck in the 1970s. At least that was my impression of the downtown.

The bookstore does have the latest books, though:

Adjacent to the main walking street, there is a nice park. And at its entrance you will see a sculpture for the 1956 revolution.

It was one of the more interesting revolution sculptures I’ve seen, and I’ve seen my share here. It was a fairly unimposing obelisk, but covering the sculpture and the surrounding ground were all of these newspapers from the days during the revolution.

The monument above was my favorite. I just love this. At the top is a very nice cross and a handsome Jesus, and then BAM–woman holding a skull.  Very creepy. It has to be from the Communist era because it has that lack of detail that is common in those sculptures. But the Party artists weren’t making religious sculptures–they were making workers’ sculptures. So it’s strange and kind of wonderful.

Our final task in Csongrád was to take a look at what remains of the 18th-century fishing village settlement.

Adobe houses + thatched roofs = cute. People still live in these houses, though I read that some have super-modern interiors. I wish Hungary had a Parade of the Homes so I could get a look inside. That day most of the curtains were drawn. They definitely saw me and my Nikon coming.

The town sits on the banks of the Tisza river, and because it is damned just north of town, there is often a sandy beach where you can lay out or swim. Don’t open your mouth, though, because that water is coming from Romania. Sigh. I think I still have a little case of travel fatigue.

The Serbian Market

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Subotica, Serbia is just across the Hungarian border and about an hour from Szeged. I’ve been a few times to the actual city, which is quite nice. You can see and read about it here. But a few weekends ago, Györgyi and I, accompanied by our two friends Edi and Gabi, went to Subotica not for touring or photographing, but to shop.

The main attraction of Subotica is really not the city but “the market”. Calling it the market, which everyone does here, doesn’t even do it justice. It’s a massive flea market/food market/knock-off bonanza.

In a lot of EU countries, such as Italy, it is illegal to purchase fake goods. This summer when we were in Florence, we couldn’t avoid all of the signs reminding us that if we did purchase a fake good, we (not the dealer) would be spending several lovely siestas in an Italian prison.  But Serbia ain’t Europe, baby!

As you can see.  You wouldn’t confuse real for fake here anyway. Highlights include the Nike: Express Yourself slogan and the fabulous Guci and Luis Vutton bags. But for $2, who’s counting correct letters?

As usual, the highlight was food-related and it was in the form of the Burek. It’s kind of a cross between a meat pie and a savory Baklava. First of all it was HUGE–layers of phyllo dough stuffed with cheese and ham. The snack was pretty popular throughout the Ottoman Empire and is still really popular today in Serbia. It was sinfully delicious as well.

And even though Gabi almost caused us to get turned around at the Hungarian boarder when she casually insulted the customs agent, I got my passport stamped and we all ended up having a really fun day. So fun, in fact, that we’re already planning a return trip this summer.

The End of Winter & the Busójárás

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It’s been a miserable beginning to March. Snow and clouds for about six days now, which has everyone’s mood in the pits. But it’s Friday and the sun has just popped one eye open and it seems, at least for the moment, like the weekend and Carnival celebrations will be in full swing.

On Sunday, we’re going to Mohács, a little town in SW Hungary. It will be the place to be this weekend, as people celebrate the Busójárás. The tradition probably dates back to the Turkish occupation of Hungary. The local legend is that the people from Mohács had to flee the town to avoid the terrible Ottoman Turks. And one night at the end of winter, a Šokci man suddenly appeared at their campfire. Šokci are ethnic southern slavs/Croats. So the man told them that they shouldn’t be afraid to return to their homes. That they should prepare weapons because a masked knight would arrive and lead them to scare away the Turks. A few nights later the knight arrived, dressed in a terrifying mask. The people put on their own masks and picked up their weapons. They charged into the city and the Turks thought that they were being attacked by demons. They were so terrified, in fact, that they fled the city immediately.

photo by Istvan Kadar

The story has pre-Christian roots as well, and suggests that the people dressed up as Busós to scare away the winter. Sunday marks the largest celebration. Busós and Busó teams from Hungary and Croatia will be dressed in the sheepskin/straw/mask attire and parade through the city. And at sunset, a giant bonfire is lit and a stuffed straw figure (that represents Winter) will be burned. It’s been a tough winter, so I’m especially looking forward to see it ablaze.