29 September - What's love got to do with it?

I've been thinking a lot about love lately. Specifically, I've been thinking about love since being asked by a very special friend to do a reading at his wedding. Besides being extremely honored, I'm also terrified. I don't have a major issue with public speaking, the thing that has me in a panic, is that I'm to select the reading. Naturally, this reading needs to be romantic but not saccharine, memorable but not baffling - basically it needs to be pretty awesome to do justice to my friend and his future wife.

I've read many texts about love - mad love, romantic love, new love, throwing yourself in front of a train love, but, none of these types of love are adequate expressions of what I believe love to be. Like most young girls, I had an obsession with novels written in the 1800s by the likes of Jane Austen or one/all of the Brontë sisters. By the time I was 18 I was totally perplexed as to why a tall, dark, rich, arrogant (yet with a heart of gold) suitor, had failed to materialise and ask for my hand. Naturally I would refuse the first time before discovering that I'd been wrong about him all along and he really was my one, true, love. However, by my early 20s it became most evident that this type of love either didn't exist, or didn't exist in the Queensland suburbs.

Now in my early 30s, I'm still not sure literature and songs have helped me formulate the right definition. Perhaps I just don't have it in me, but, I'm yet to experience the extremities of love that would cause me to stab myself in the chest with a knife. I think the worst it has gotten for me is a week under the doona and spontaneous tears at the office. And that felt like shit, so, I pity the poor person who has the desire to punch a wall with his/her head.

The internet proved diabolical in helping me in my quest. Suggestions range from passages in Lord of the Rings to more bible than you can poke a misogynist finger at. So, off to the music collection I go. No Elliot Smith then (for reasons stated above), no Wilco (I'm never sure if Jeff is singing about a woman or heroin)...hold up, what do we have here...Tex Perkins, 'Real Love';
'What we got is real love. It ain't a bit deal love, but it has its appeal love. It's real, it's here and it's love. It ain't for the crowds love. It ain't in the clouds love...it ain't jumpin off bridges love...sometimes it's dull love but I love that dullness too. It ain't in the kisses, it ain't gettin your wishes, it's doin the dishes, that's real, real love.'

Why is this song so appealing to me? I think it's because it goes someway to explain what one of the best parts of being in love is - respect and friendship. This became particularly evident to me over the last few days when I've had friends visiting from Australia. This couple are one of my favourite examples of a successful relationship. In the three days we spent together, I did a bit of observation. How do they make it work? What does their love look like? To my mind, it seemed as simple as looking out for each other, looking after each other - just being a good team.

Unfortunately though, this simplistic definition is unlikely to bring the house down at my friend's wedding - unless it's with mass booing. So, it's back to iTunes for me. Alternatively, my incredibly wise and romantic friends can send me some suggestions. Please.

20 September - Art + Shit = ?

Late last week I was engaging in a bit of 21st century technology by Skype chatting with a friend on my way home from class. Try not to be too overwhelmed by my (recently acquired) mad skillz in this area, for you may rest assured, I still can't get my head around if I'm actually 'online' or not. Anyways, Skype friend, T, asked me what I was up to that day, to which I responded, 'just going to see some art and shit'. Little did I realise that this flippant (and not particularly funny) remark was to come true.

So, let's get the shit out of the way first - Kunsthaus Tacheles (Arthouse Tacheles). Now, the building itself has a fascinating and wonderful history involving varying uses, ranging from department store to Nazi prison. The shit part comes in, I suspect, probably by the late 1990s - ten years after it had been functioning as an artist-run squat. From what I've read about the space, in its early incarnation as an artist-run initiative, it was genuinely reflective and responsive to the local creative community. But, twenty years on, it appeared to me to be as artistically relevant as Chadstone Shopping Centre. 

Perhaps though I should start by setting the scene. As I entered the stairwell, I was aurally greeted by German commercial radio being piped down from above. Red Hot Chilli Peppers (circa 1992) assaulted my ears, which combined with 'street art' (i.e. really shit graffiti) to assault my eyes. Then I came across the artists' studio spaces. I should apologise in advance to any curators reading this - or indeed anybody who has an understanding and appreciation for the visual arts -  for I'm about to give my unqualified opinion on what I believe art is. Firstly though, it was clear to me that the works on display at Tacheles were a perfect example of what art is not. They were mediocre and embarrassing opportunities to cash in on the street art boom that, realistically died about fifteen years ago. However, that didn't stop the gaggle of tourists buying up bag loads of tack to better relive their cutting edge Berlin art experience from the comfort of their hotel rooms. I left feeling deflated but pretty confident in knowing what art wasn't. 

So, what is art? I think I came closer to the answer when visiting the KW Institute for Contemporary Art, nearby on Auguststrasse. 

After buying my entry ticket, I needed to ask the staff member if I was heading in the right direction, for the space in front of me was totally black. She half nodded while serving somebody else so I still wasn't sure I was on the right track. So I continued to walk down the dark hallway, towards 'the art.' Then I came to the top of some steps which seemed to overlook a cavernous black hole below, with a type of steel structure nearly invisible in the gloom. I could hear footsteps below me but couldn't see anybody moving in the space. I decided to start carefully descending while holding fast to the handrail to guide me through the thoroughly dark space. Internal dialogue went as follows; 'What is this rubbish? I'm going to break my neck it's so dark in here. What happens once I get to the end of these steps? It's pitch black in here. Am I supposed to actually view this mysterious structure close up? Is this art? What's going on? Fuck, I've come the wrong way. They are surely just installing something and I've stumbled onto the work site. Fuck. How embarrassing. I'm going to be humiliated. I'm going to be humiliated in German. I can't defend myself. Fuck! I'm mortified. Oh, there's an exit sign. Okay, that's not an exit. It's so dark in here. Is this art?' etc. etc. Physically I was also exhausted. Preparing for certain mortification and/or a broken rib, my body had been injected with so much adrenaline that my legs were shaking and my heart was racing.

Eventually I found my way back to the steps and my relief was so great that I had to sit down for about ten minutes to calm myself. 

Turns out it was art I was experiencing. The work is by Inigo Manglano-Ovalle and is called Phantom Truck. It's apparently a comment on the Iraq war. But, what I was experiencing actually went to the core of one of my biggest fears - public humiliation. I still maintain I don't really know what art is, but, the cocktail of emotions that I was forced to confront - fear, embarrassment, doubt and wonder - makes me think I've come pretty close

18 September - The world according to Irvine Welsh

There was a time in the 1990s when everybody one met had either read Trainspotting, or was in the process of doing so. It must have been around 1997, just after the film, (based on the book), had been released, and we were all enthralled by the (disturbingly sexy) world of Edinburgh's junkies. So, being a dedicated child of the 90s, I was amongst those who dutifully watched the film, then ran out to read Irvine Welsh's book afterwards.

It has been 15 years since I first read Trainspotting, and Mr Welsh and I have had something of a tumultuous relationship in that time. Safe to say, I'd never quite read anything like his books - the Scottish dialect was near impossible to understand, but oh so satisfying when you caught the rhythm. The subject matter was always so unflinchingly brutal, I was often too in awe to be offended. However, by the early 2000s, the honeymoon was over. I started to find his characters so abhorrent, I wished them (and, in turn, the book) a bloody and quick end. (This is also the problem I have with Christos Tsiolkas, but, perhaps best saved for another time). So, when I saw that Irvine Welsh was doing a reading, and plug for his new book, at the Berlin Literature Festival, I wondered if it was worth the mental energy to try and revive our relationship. I didn't wonder for too long, since, outside of Skype, this was my only opportunity to hear somebody speak in English for longer than three minutes.

Unfortunately an afternoon nap and maintenance on the U2 train line meant I was a few minutes late. Luckily I only missed the introduction (in German), and the reading followed only minutes afterwards. He read well, though his Scottish accent was so thick I began to wonder if it was English I was listening to. I also find the concept of author as performer rather strange. The Q&A however was something of a treat. Welsh had quite a few things to say about the process of writing and why he gets enjoyment out of it. Some of it was banal, but some of it was surprisingly touching. He said, for him, character development was about getting closer to humanity - to understanding how humans tick and behave why we do. Apparently, when he begins creating a character, he determines their humanity by three basic criteria; what they say, what they play and who they lay. Crass, certainly, but, it got me thinking about how this criteria relates to the people in my life. The 'what they say' part is a no-brainer in terms of how a person presents themselves to the world through speech. 'What they play' is a little more interesting. For example, I don't believe I could be friends with a person who got their musical stimulation entirely through listening to the top 40 charts. They could be a very nice person, I'm sure. Just not my type of person. Lastly though; 'who they lay', or more specifically, who are we attracted to and why? Are we partially defined by the type of person we love?

This concept reminded me of a conversation I had with a couple of girlfriends recently. Somehow we'd gotten talking about 'the ideal partner'. One friend summed her ideal up as such; 'he likely wears Blundstone boots, can back a ute and jump a fence with one hand'. Besides being quite funny, it also paints a pretty accurate picture of the sort of person my friend is; she loves being outdoors amongst nature, she's practical, capable and no-nonsense. Just like her ideal partner.

I actually can't remember what my answer to this question was, but, when I think about any recurring characteristics from loves past, I can come up with a few; quick witted, flawed (but with enough insight to be cognisant of those flaws), and usually smokers (two have had the particularly attractive knack of rolling a cigarette while driving a manual car). I'm not sure what the smoking part says about me, (death wish perhaps), but, I like to flatter myself that I've a fairly sharp wit and, though flawed, I at least try to address those flaws and make myself a better human in the process.

So, thanks Irvine for helping me understand humanity a little better. I'm glad we're friends again. I even contributed to your retirement fund by buying your book afterwards - I just hope the characters are saying, playing and laying to my satisfaction.

16 September - Waxing lyrical

I paid a visit to Berlin's Museum for Photography (Museum für Fotografie), earlier this week. Though the top floor contained a reasonably interesting collection of works by photojournalist Abisag Tüllmann, the majority of punters were heading straight to the Helmut Newton display, located on the ground and first floors. If you're currently thinking 'I know that name, but, I'm not sure I know his work...', let me jog your memory. Think naked chicks. Now think of really big boobs. Now think of bondage. Now think of naked chick with big boobs tied to the bed. You likely won't remember her face, because, chances are it's hidden or been cut off. Please don't worry, this post isn't going to be a rehashing of my paper from Gender Studies 101 on 'why it's bad to objectify women for commodification and call it high art'. The fact is, I love Helmut Newton's photographs, but, unlike other forms of art I've experienced, his images left me a little cold. There's something about seeing perfection en masse that made me rather bored. So much so, that the most intellectual thought imprinted on my memory was; 'geeze, I really should get onto that bikini wax this week'.

And, so we come to the point. The German bikini wax experience. As mentioned, after viewing hundreds of images of naked women this week, the 'upkeep' of my own body has been on my mind. So, when I stumbled across 'Queen of Waxing', I thought it was time to take the plunge. The plunge was quite literal as I had to walk down a set of stairs to a basement counter. All the while I'm trying to desperately think of the German word for bikini and wondering if one should address the waxer with the formal 'Sie' or informal 'du'. Then I arrived at the counter - to be greeted by a man. Oh shit. Now, I know that the Germans are much more laid back about nudity than most other nationalities, but, there was no chance I was having my pubic hair removed by a man. In my panic I was stuttering a combination of English and German; 'wax', 'Frau only!', 'kein Brazilian'. Luckily, soon after this hysterical performance, a woman came out from the back room. She oddly shook my hand, and introduced herself as Angelika.

So, most women (and quite a few men) would know there are various types of bikini shapes available. Thankfully, I was saved from having to resort to pantomime when Angelika presented me with a helpful chart showing various styles to choose from. I resisted the heart shape and indicated something resembling my regular order. Up on the bench I got. It's a strange relationship a girl has with her bikini waxer. For example, back in Melbourne, I know that Vanessa (her actual name), lives in Thomastown, is married and has a two year old son. Small talk is what maintains the waxer/client relationship. Since I'd just come from week two of German classes, I was proficient in small talk. But somehow, telling my German waxer that 'mein Bruder ist 41 Jahre alt' (my brother is 41 years old), just seemed inappropriate. Instead, I was left wishing I'd learnt German for 'that wax is like molten lava, please be careful where you're putting it'.

Turns out I didn't need to learn any such phrases because Angelika was very gentle and professional. She even gave me a fruit mentos sweet afterwards - she'd obviously been impressed by my Australian stoicism.

Oh, and Newton's photographs really only influenced me in the bikini wax department. I'm not planning a boob job any time soon. Though, I did learn how to say boobs in German today...

13 September - Eins is the loneliest number?

I did one of those Myers-Briggs Type Indicator tests once. In short, the Myers-Briggs is a questionnaire aimed to pigeonhole your personality type. There are two sets of four 'types', and depending on how you answer the questionnaire, you're given points to determine if you're either; Extroverted/Introverted; Sensing/Intuition; Thinking/Feeling; Judgement/Perception. From memory, I believe I'm Introverted, Intuition, Thinking, Judgement (INTJ). Rather than bore you with what this (apparently) means, safe to say, that in the world of Myers-Briggs, I'm something of a dictatorial sociopath. Upon first getting these results I was particularly struck by the 'Introverted' read. The 'facilitator' (i.e. quack) was immediately set upon. 
'I don't agree with this', I shouted in a dictatorial and anti-social manner. 'Introverts are friendless blokes who collect comic books. I have many friends, I'm not a man, and I don't like comics!' The facilitator aimed to calm me (I suspect she was swaying towards the Sensing and Feeling areas). 
'It's not about not having friends, introverts just have fewer, closer friends, and they tend to expend energy in social situations. Would you choose to go to a movie on your own for example?'
'Of course I would', I snorted.
At which point I heard a gasp of despair from a fellow lab rat.
'There is no way in the world I'd go to a movie on my own', she cried.
It simply never occurred to me that there were people in the world who needed to be around others constantly. This continues to be driven home to me when meeting new people in Berlin. 'Oh, so you have friends here?' is the standard response. 
'No, just me'.
'But don't you get lonely?' 
'Nope, there's the internet. And phones, there are always phones'.
This situation has played out a few times now, actually causing me to question; 'am I lonely?' Funnily enough, I think about times I've felt truly alone and it turns out it's been when I've been in a relationship. Granted, it's been in the death throes of that relationship. You know that time when you just know it's going to end. Has to end. But that's more about the prospect of potential loneliness, rather than actual loneliness.
Don't get me wrong, I love people. Really, I do. There are just some things that are better done solo. These include; reading (obviously a solo pursuit). Watching movies (it's a silent experience, why do you need someone with you?). Going to art galleries (I set an irregular pace - often galloping past the 'important' works and spending much too long obsessing over misplaced apostrophes on wall labels). Listening to incredibly embarrassing music from the 1990s (Hole or L7 anybody? I didn't think so). 

Admittedly, hours spent in my own head does put me at risk of very soon starting on that comic book collection. So, as a preventative measure, I've begun compiling a list of things that are better done with others. These include; cooking and eating out (it's much more fun getting praise for a meal just cooked, or trying food from somebody's plate). Drinking (I also like to do this solo, but, it is generally more fun with others). Dancing and singing (an all night karaoke session in LA involving a Nancy Sinatra duet and the company of three awesome ladies remains a memory highlight). Attending weddings* (the best forum in which to do all of the above).
So, back to Berlin time. From my favourite aforementioned solo pastimes I've indulged in them all (usually daily). The team pastimes have been put on hold until the arrival of visitors. And the fact is, whilst they are certainly enjoyable things to do, who could do karaoke everyday? How would you have energy to read/watch/view/listen to the things around you? The prospect of not being able to do these things makes me feel very lonely indeed.
*S, you are exempt from granting me a plus one to your upcoming nuptials - considering you are generally my back up date anyway.

10 September - Let's make some memories people

Everybody knows the power that music has to return us to a certain time and place from our past, but also how it helps shape our current memories. For me, The Strokes 'Is this it?' album takes me to the early 2000s when the Rob Roy was still the Rob Roy and my biggest concern was affording my $420 a month rent in my first Melbourne share house. The Hoodoo Gurus remind me of the Tote jukebox and cigarettes* in the front bar and badly played games of pool. Midlake, Fleet Foxes and Neko Case will always be linked with Rae street dinner parties where K and I are inevitably drunker than our guests.

So, it was with mixed feelings that I attended the Berlin Festival, featuring none other than Primal Scream (doing the entire Screamadelica album), and Suede. Nostalgia is a beautiful thing, but, at what age does it hinder your ability to make new memories? 

Before boarding the nostalgia train however, I thought I'd remain in 2011 by having a listen to CSS. Lovefoxxx, on lead vocals, was so full of energy and enthusiasm, it didn't really matter that the music wasn't that great. She stalked the stage, crowd surfed and high kicked her way through a set that left me smiling and wondering how on earth I'd ended up in Berlin, cheering the antics of a tiny Brazilian girl in short shorts and batman mask.

There was a short wait before I needed to be at the main stage for Primal Scream. So, off I went for a beer. 'Ein Bier bitte' - at which point I was handed a pot of beer, and small green token. 'Was ist das?' The bar girl, obviously so impressed with my German, answered (in the Queen's English), ''if you bring the token back with your empty cup, you get one euro back'. Of course the Germans were the ones to come up with this ingenious and highly organised plan. Result; no litter on the ground and therefore no need to fight for floor space when listening to a band.

So, off I went to the main stage to join Bobby Gillespie and gang on our joyful journey to the 1990s. I know there are very strong opinions on the concept of the 'revival' gig. I must admit, while I find the concept slightly embarrassing for the performer, the aforementioned nostalgia element wins me over in the end. I was also curious to see if Bobby might choose Berlin as the best place to bore us all with his politics (he's pro-Palestinian and has been accused of being an anti-Semite). Thankfully though, nobody mentioned the war. Bobby just got up there and did his thing. And he did it adequately. Understandably he did seem a little bored at times - and it would be an amazing human who wouldn't get bored playing songs that are 20 years old. But really, by the time 'Come Together' was played, I didn't care how bored Bobby was. The most important thing was, I was having a great time. 

I was four beers in by the time Suede came on. Before discussing the music, I must say, considering Brett Anderson's drug history, at 43 years old, he looks phenomenal. Less feminine than in his youth, but still incredibly lithe and attractive. Thankfully his voice is also still in great shape. 'Crack in the union jack' was surprisingly powerful. 'We are the pigs' was energetic and entertaining. 'Animal nitrate' however gave me mixed feelings. I simply love that song and it holds a special place in my musical memory bank. Despite it being performed faithfully and with sincerity, hearing it over 15 years after its release just made me feel sad, and old. I was also possibly drunk. 

On my way home, listening on my headphones, my phone shuffled onto 'Prenzlauerberg' by Beirut. I'd like to think that this, along with many more new tunes, will formulate my memories of my time in Berlin - not Primal Scream and Suede. Those bands have their place in my past, and 2011 is already running out of room. 


*I wasn't the one smoking the cigarettes, naturally.

7 September - Working class hero?

Like most teenagers, my (many) years at university were spent asking life's big questions, such as; 'can a capitalist society be a just society?' and 'does shaving my armpits make me a non-feminist?' Also, coming from fairly standard working class stock, and being raised to be suspicious of anybody with lots of money, I felt I was more open than most to a political philosophy that advocated a classless society. It's important to note here that I was 'open', not 'active'. So, whilst I always had time to read a Young Socialists' brochure or occasionally listen to an on-campus speech, ultimately the idealist in me died and, six years in, I was turned off by their fanaticism and bare feet. I do sometimes wonder though, what if I'd been converted all those years ago? Would I still consider socialism a viable system?

This question has something to do with my (some say morbid) interest in the former GDR (German Democratic Republic). So, for those of you who don't know*, the GDR was the communist state of occupied Germany following Germany's defeat in the second World War. This area encompassed East Germany - including the eastern half of Berlin. A big old wall was built to prevent citizens from defecting to the West, and the ruling political party (the Socialist Unity Party of Germany), created the Ministry for State Security to ensure that nobody (internal or external) posed a risk to their control over the population. The Ministry for State Security was basically a secret police force, commonly known as the Stasi. After reading Anna Funder's book, Stasiland, I'd always wanted to visit the former Stasi headquarters to formulate my own opinion on the supposed tyranny of the regime. 

However, before getting into the question of tyranny, it's probably more interesting to talk about the extreme paranoia of the Ministry for State Security. The lengths they went to to protect the socialist system from subversive elements, seem (to modern minds), almost laughable. Take a look at some of these devices and tell me this isn't like something from a Bond film featuring any one of the actors who wasn't Sean Connery.

First up a camera tie;

Don't normally wear a tie? Perhaps a button camera is more your thing;

Unfortunately though, it wasn't all slightly embarrassing espionage. The scent samples concerned me somewhat. This is where they would bottle the scent of citizens under investigation by wiping down the seat they'd been interrogated on - supposedly for the benefit of the dogs should that person require tracking at a later date. Kind of creepy right? 
Surely somebody in the Socialist Unity Party sat back one day and actually thought; 'hold on, it's now at the stage where we're collecting people's smells, just to ensure they don't leave. Perhaps something isn't quite right here?' Unfortunately, it seems nobody from the SED did have this thought because around 1985 the number of Stasi officials actually increased to close to 90,000. It took until 1989 for mass unrest and strikes to bring the system (and the wall) down.

There is certainly no question that the Stasi were a very strange and tyrannical force. However, I find it hard to believe that life under socialism was all bread lines and drab outfits. Certainly the feeling I get, is, at least nobody was cold or homeless or hungry. And really, can you imagine yourself as a former citizen of the GDR, and your first exposure to western society is David Hasselhoff in custom made electric lights jacket? I think I'd prefer somebody to put my scent in a jar.

*Shame on you for not knowing fundamental post-war history!

3 September - Berlin; The City of Bikes

About twelve months ago I purchased a bicycle on eBay. 'Reconditioned' and 'vintage' with a sparkling new paint job and obligatory basket on the front. Upon purchasing this bike I could not get enough of looking at it. Chained to my bedroom window grate, in front of a flower box brimming with geraniums, I dubbed my new acquisition 'snowflake', and foresaw a happy and aesthetically pleasing life together. 

In her twelve months lifespan with me, 'snowflake' has seen the road approximately nine times. My lack of ability to bond with bike riding was summed up when housemate K noted one day - 'oh, you rode today? I was worried when I didn't see your bike out front. I assumed it must have been stolen'. It's not that I'm lazy exactly, it's just that I like the idea (and look) of the bike more than the riding of the bike. 

So, upon landing in Berlin, my new home for the next two months, I've needed to radically reassess this attitude. Everybody rides a bike in this town. And they don't care if it has a new paint job or hand woven basket. If it has two wheels, it will do. Functioning brakes optional. Below is a snapshot of my back garden (taken from the kitchen window).

This shows only one side of the garden. There are at least ten more bikes bordering this courtyard - also note the veggie patch (but more on that in a later post). 

The orange number (second from the right under the shelter), is mine. As a homage to snowflake, this beast has been called 'traffic cone', as no other name could describe its lurid shade and utter lack of style. If I'm to get over my affliction for riding only for fashion, this bike is most certainly the cure.

When hiring the bike I made a gesture to the bike guy to indicate that I'd quite like to hire a helmet as well, so as to not break my skull during this little experiment. 'Nein' was the short answer to that request. No helmets here. So, day one, off I went with streaming hair and nervous stomach. First stop, Brandenburg Gate.

Now part of the reason I don't really dig bike riding in Melbourne has something to do with hills and lack of decent infrastructure for cyclists. Everybody would know that riding to the Napier Hotel from my house (for example), involves not only braving the lunatics on Brunswick St, but also a slight incline that snowflake is simply not equipped to handle. Thankfully, Berlin is totally flat and has more bike lanes than pedestrian footpaths. Traffic cone also sports some nifty back pedal brakes which take me back to a time (when I was about twelve) and used to ride my bike outside my house for hours at a time. Handbrakes always felt so adult - so serious. 

I could get used to this. Then I hit the Unter den Linden and the bike path and bus lane became one. Praying that a bus wouldn't pull out in front of me became my sole thought. That, and the fact that I was without helmet. By the time I reached the Brandenburg Gate I needed to sit down at a tourist restaurant and pay five euros for a water - just to calm my nerves. 

But, from my overpriced vantage point I was able to observe the lay of the land. The buses (and cars) were deferring to the cyclists in every case. No aggression, not even a close call was noted. 

On the way home I was a different rider to the girl who had started out. Traffic cone and I were now friends. I could even relax enough to cycle and window shop at the same time. Result; new black dress and hopefully a fitter, less prejudiced future cyclist.

1 September – Hungary, Scrabble and Nudity*

I’m proud to boast that in the last fifteen years of adventuring around the globe, in my efforts to be culturally sensitive, but also to make myself understood, I’ve made it compulsory to learn the foreign equivalent of ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘thank you’. At some stage I’ve been able to recite these words in German, French, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Japanese, Indonesian, Cambodian, Thai and Vietnamese. But, after spending close to four days in Budapest, Hungarian is notably absent from this list.

I should have known I was bound for failure when on the first night I asked the waiter how to say ‘thank you’. He told me, I repeated it. He laughed and told me again. I repeated it. This went on for sometime, but, after about six to seven goes, I was confident enough to teach the rest of the table what I’d learnt. Then, on the way out, the normal practice is to thank the waiter. He smiled at me encouragingly, but…nothing. I had learnt this word not five minutes before. I couldn’t remember a single syllable. A smile and nod (and decent tip) had to suffice for my very patient and slightly bemused teacher.

When learning specific words in foreign languages, I usually find it handy to give them an English ‘sounds like’ equivalent. As an example, let’s take the name of my local metro stop in Budapest; Keleti Payaudvar. The best I could come up with – Kelti Palaver. For starters, Kelti isn’t even a word in English, and secondly, what language deserves to be associated with a palaver? It’s a joke word in any language. But perhaps this example isn’t sufficient to demonstrate the complexity of Hungarian. So, here are a few more to contemplate; Vörösmarty utca, Szabadságtelep, Szépvölgyi út. You get the picture right?

In order to amuse myself on public transport, I often spend time trying to interpret the advertising billboards. Normally you can make out what some words could mean by the accompanying picture. There was one ad that had me transfixed for four days. It looked a little like this; a sort of country chateau positioned off into the distance, a couple, early 40s, positioned to the foreground, towards the left hand corner. Couple with a very large bird of prey (I’m guessing falcon) in their hands, upside down, with its right wing pulled out into a full span. What in god’s name could this be about? The words were totally indecipherable, so, I only had the picture to go on. Here are some possibilities I came up with; ‘Secure your retirement; Buy into falcon farming today!’ or, ‘Falcon world; come see Zéöpkgtui the falcon with the world’s biggest wing span!’

So, in order to lend some authority to this theory, back at the hotel, I began typing in such google gems as ‘incidence of falcon farms in Hungary’ and ‘bird of prey theme parks in Hungary’. It’s only when I (unsurprisingly) came up with nothing that I realised this exercise was futile in helping me understand the language better. So, I googled what any keen linguist would; ‘how much are z’s worth in Hungarian scrabble’. Answer; four. (They are worth ten points in English by the way).

*Warning, post contains no mention of nudity. This is because this post was supposed to be about Budapest’s thermal baths, but, with a distinct lack of nudity on offer, there was not that much of interest to say (other than they are very nice and I would recommend them). Then the post was going to be about the food in Budapest, but the overwhelming desire to pun my way through references to being ‘hungry in Hungary’, got too much to bear.