Review of Aerosvit

I decided I would best spend this flight writing a critique of the airline Aerosvit and a review of what it seems to have referred to as 'food'.

As I walked past the first seats, the condition of first class rose in me great concerns of the area I would soon enter in my search for seat 22A. I passed the divider that separates the wealthy from the proletariat and the seats became less classy and closer together but I was pleased that they appeared to still have leg room and offer some amount of comfort. And then I entered the economy class. It was like walking in one of those optical illusion houses designed to trick you when you approach the back of the room to find out what otherwise appeared to be a normal door turned out to be comically tiny, and even more comical the closer to it you get.

I continued to the very last row of the craft. Seat A was in the corner. I felt relegated to inferiority as I sat beneath a missing panel, exposed wires dangling above my head. I didn't try it, but I assume the attendant call button would electrocute me if I pushed it. I was consoled by the fact that I had the row to myself. At least for a few minutes. Two fairly loud, delightful, and laughing women sat next to me and judging by the expressions of everyone they talked to or around, their language was probably lewd and quite crass. I kept seeing other passengers give me looks of pity, next to the Loud Women, in the corner, beneath the wires.

As I look down at what I hope is the Black Sea, I see some sort of land formation that actually resembles northern Poland's Hel Peninsula, and it occurs to me that it may indeed be, in some sort of Northwest Airlines fell-asleep-in-the-cockpit gaffe that wouldn't make the news because no one would be surprised. At any rate, 'Hel' wouldn't be a far off description of the experience.

The silly girl in front of me seems to be deliberately attempting to spill my coffee as she is repeatedly pushing the seat back and pulling it forward, but I'm not sure if the seat isn't doing this by itself in some unstable reaction to turbulence. She has also dropped something on my foot (I'm not sure how it manages to go *through* the seat) on no less than three occasions. I keep thinking it is a rat or other creature crawling about, perhaps escaped from someone's lunch tray, when I notice her frantically searching until I hand her her rubber band or gum package.

While I was standing in line for the bathroom just now, the aircraft--or however you describe this particular hurtling fuselage--began heavily banking to the left and right without any warning from the captain or even indications from the seat belt light. Otherwise unsure of why we would need to turn so sharply, these could only be described as evasive maneuvers. I imagine the captain was simply avoiding other Aerosvit fuselages just catapulted from airports below. At any rate, the maneuvers seemed to have had an unfortunate effect on the aim of the gentleman before me. When I returned to my seat, I found that it had been stolen by the ladies next to me. This has never happened to me on a flight before, but they kindly passed me my bag. At least that silly girl won't drop something else on my foot and I won't be electrocuted by the wires in the corner.

Pretending to be a food critic on an airplane is admittedly unfair, like kicking a sick puppy, but this puppy happens to be particularly ugly and instead of 'sick' it's 'an aircraft.' In seriousness, I simply can't *not* describe to you what I just consumed (or what is consuming me, I'm not really sure). You remember when your uncouth college roommate found something rancid under his desk and thrust it in your face commanding, "Smell this!" not because he wanted to hurt you, but because he was so deeply fascinated that the odor he discovered in the deepest crevice of his very own room was so uniquely terrible that he felt he should not be the only one so privileged to experience it? This is effectively what I am doing to you in writing. Sit tight.

As an aside for a moment, one of my first flights on this trip was on Turkish Airlines where I was provided an elegant menu of options to choose from and served an unexpectedly delectable ratatouille as the vegetarian alternative, finished with a chocolate browny, and accompanied by a decently good wine. While I wasn't expecting a second appearance of Chef Gusteau, I can't say 'baren wasteland landscape' was a description I thought would be apt as I pulled back the strangely moist tin foil from the aluminum tray bent from having been stuffed unceremoniously in what was probably a suitcase full of dirty socks.

What ever it was staring back at me was disguised as a rectangle of egg-product topped with -- pardon the childish expression -- fart cheese. I took a picture but I won't show it to you because it does not do justice. You can't see it glisten. You can't imagine yourself walking across its moon-crater like surface attacked with white alien goo. You can't recognized the expression it used as it stared up at me, offering its discontent with its ill fate, still upset about having been microwaved.

The rectangular mat didn't really jiggle, but reacted more in a sponge-like manner as I pressed the knife through its rubbery layers. As I turned a piece of it over I was shocked to see that it could further shock me with its horrifying features. While the part that was originally exposed was a bumpy pale yellow with spatterings of that white cheese substance, the underside was the nondescript and stunningly unvarying color grey, giving moon-rocks a run for their money. I took another picture of the specimen, but again, there is no justice. You can't understand from it the texture of a soggy used pumice stone and a distinct feeling that makes you wish you could no longer empathize.

The bread role was not as stale as I expected, given the performance of the rectangle, and it was well accompanied with ham slices that managed to squeak against your teeth as you bit them. The area of the tray serving as a fruit cup contained small slices of what might have been a melon if it were allowed to ripen for two more months. The tray even fell flat in providing the simplest of dishes: 'apple.' There was one thick edge of apple peel next to the premature melon, but it was significantly worm-eaten.

The plane is now in its descent (or its demise, at the moment these are indistinguishable), and I'm not sure what just happened but I managed to trade seats again with the loud women next to me and am at the moment sitting inexplicably, directly between the two ladies, us having now exercised every conceivable permutation of seating arrangement the row can offer.

---I must turn my electronic device off, more soon---

The fog was so thick as we landed that I thought we were still in the clouds until we actually hit the runway. I have to hand it to Aerosvit pilots that they can handle just fine conditions lesser airlines would consider 'legally unnavigable'. Landing in much of Eastern Europe, by the way, is always delightful because the entire cabin claps afterwords, as though they didn't expect it to have gone off so well and are fully grateful for the surprise of having survived. I quite missed the clapping while traveling outside the region and indeed sometimes feel the rest of the world arrogantly taunts death by not recognizing the fortune of their survival.

As a final note, I am ending this post whilst waiting for my connection, and a piece of the Ukraine Borispol Airport just fell apart. A giant vertically sliding door both closed and opened at the same time horrifying its operator and causing a thunderous noise startling everyone and causing a large group of Jewish men to clap and burst into song. If someone is aware of the cultural nuance I may have missed here, could you please leave a comment with an explanation?

BREAKING NEWS - CEU Library Lifts Ban on Water Consumption

In a rare announcement the CEU Library indicated it has lifted its blanket ban on the consumption of water within its borders.  The change in policy represents a dramatic shift in the regime's stance on allowing anything substantial to occur within the library walls.   The announcement, released earlier today via the GroupWise communication system, indicates that water may be transported in "bottles," defined as plastic, sealable, non-breakable containers, across the threshold of the Library in recognition of the "need of Library users to remain hydrated."

Few individuals have access to the Library's mysterious ruling elite and such communications are rare.  Speculations of a coup have arisen and the move may be a sign of internal power struggles, according to sources familiar with the matter.

For a regime that requires that all readers be stamped indicating personal ownership, separate forms for each personal item entering the premises, and a blanket ban on all jackets, liquids, foods, or any other source of personal comfort, experts wonder what the lift of the water embargo could mean next.  The announcement makes it clear that alcoholic drinks will remain prohibited, but students wonder if they might soon be free to wear jackets.

Observers fear the announcement will incite a backlash of student emails over GroupWise, both praising the decision and also exhibiting concern for water conservation practices.  The excess consumption of water under the new rules may lead to the depletion of the Danube River as a water source and discrimination against Keanu Reeves.  Experts believe the debaters will inevitably compare one another to Hitler.

Lamp Fixing.

I was quietly reading away in my dorm room when a knock came upon my door.  Not expecting anyone, and having heard Hungarian spoken behind the door, I assumed it was dormitory maintenance or housekeeping and removed my plant from the forbidden windowsill, upon which nothing may be placed, for fear of it hurtling through the glass on its own accord to the injury of unsuspecting passers-by.

I answered the door, and two gentlemen stood there.  One said, "lamp fixing!"  I looked at him quizzically, as my lamp was fine and required no fixing.  The other seemed to want to offer clarification, and said, "lamp fixing!  Bathroom!"  Realizing I was going to get no further information from them, I stood back and invited them in.

I turned on the light to the bathroom, expecting them to see the fully functioning light fixture and determine they must have had the wrong room.  Instead, they looked up at the fully functioning light fixture and seemed to conclude it required fixing.  I didn't want to question, so I simply went back to my reading as they began 'fixing' the lamp on the ceiling.

They finished their job and left, each politely saying 'goodbye' to me.  I said "Köszönöm," to thank them for fixing my lamp, which neither was broken, nor operates any differently than prior to their handiwork.

Here, in Budapest.

I must apologize for not having posted in ages, specifically for having created a blog to which I have precious little time to actually post.  However, I will do my best to write amusing little anecdotes from time to time.

Allow me to introduce Budapest and Central European University.  It is a beautiful city and a wonderful university.  The CEU building itself was built, most likely, by the very same architects as Hogwarts.  It is comprised of what used to be several buildings, all remodeled to create one interconnected maze.  Spiraling staircases abound, and, I am convinced, they do in fact move.  One particularly narrow one ends as it progresses into the ceiling.  Presumably, there is no purpose to continue a staircase into a ceiling, so one must conclude that this was not the original design, and the ceiling was added later.  One cannot deduce, however, why this is the case.

There are plenty of nooks in the interconnected buildings that comprise the campus that surprise you when you find them, and that you may very well never find again.  For example, we just came across a small passage off a hallway.  Immediately, the small passage turns right, and then immediately proceeds through a small archway.  On the other side of the archway is a chair.  That is all.  There is approximately 2 square meters of space inside the whole of the passage way and chair space combined.  Presumably, it is there so one may sit, if they are tired, inside of a hole.  If you do so, however, passers-by who happen to see you will surely mentally note that you are a creep, if they don't outright scream at the eerie sight of a man sitting upright, in the dark, in a not particularly comfortable chair, under an arch, at the end of a short, meaningless passage.

A sign close to the entrance indicates the hours of a cafe in the basement.  It fails, however, to indicate you must pass through catacombs of dungeonesque brick archways to arrive there.  Thankfully, if you are lost in the basement, you need only follow the sound of the loud, awful club music to find the cafe.

Peppered throughout the buildings, one can't help but notice small, stone recesses in the walls.  I would assume they used to be fireplaces that have since been plastered over, but it seems odd to have put them in hallways, in staircases, and other random places.  I would not be surprised to learn they used to be passages for elves.

That's all I have time to write for now.  If I find other strange rooms, I'll be sure to let you know, that is, unless I am eaten by a three-headed dog in the process of attempting to escape.

Ginger.

Ginger is my dad and step-mother's dog.  I'm not sure if they named her Ginger because of the reddish tint of her tan hair, or in honor of his five red-headed children and fondness of South Park.  I like to think the latter.

Regardless of the source of her name, beyond her hair, there is nothing "gingerly" about her.  She is part Rhodesian Ridgeback.  My first thought when I heard this, was that they had actually found a dragon from Harry Potter.  Rather, it turns out she is something that is also known as an African Lion Hound.  This is because they were bred in South Africa to hunt lions.  Let me repeat that.

They were bred.
In South Africa.
To hunt lions.  

Schönen Pfingsten!

It's Pfingsten Day today so we have no classes.  Ten days ago it was Christi Himmelfahrt, so we had no classes.  I like May; school is apparently not very important this month.

Christi Himmelfahrt can be translated as the "Jesus Heaven-Travel," I'm assuming this is the Ascension.  But to Germans, the important part of this day is not that Jesus, following his resurrection from death, physically floated, body and soul, from the earth, ascended into heaven to be seated at the right hand of God the Father... No. It's beer.  Wheel barrels of it.

Du bist ein HENGST!

Amy bought a book about horses in German.  We were going through translating it and found out that the word for "Stallion" is "Hengst.  We thought it would be fun to say, "Oh, you stallion, you!" or "You're a stallion!" in German, so I told Amy that would be "Du bist ein Hengst!"

Scheide.

You know how sometimes people get bored of saying the same thing over and over again, so they come up with new words to express what they mean?

Well, in German, "Scheisse" means "shit," and "Schade" means something like "Too bad."  And after a while, you get sick of saying the same things over and over again, so Antti decided he would combine them to come up with his own new word:  "Scheide." 

If you speak German, you're already laughing.  If you don't, keep reading. 

Wie viele Erdteile gibt es in der Weldt?

When trying to teach a group of people another language, you have to begin with a subject that everyone knows and can agree on.  So my teacher asked the class, "How many continents are there in the world?"

Surprisingly, this is not one of those subjects.

Sherlock Holmes und der verschwundene Löffel!

When most of us think of Europe, we think of a land of a generally more accepting people.  It didn't take the national guard to desegregate schools and none of the countries are led by people who actually hate gays, and blame them for all of the problems of society.

Well, a lot of people are like that, but sometimes you come across someone who may or may not have grown up in a hole.

Möchten Sie den Menü?

In conversation with German people, I tend to rely heavily on cognates.  That is, a word that sounds the same in English as it does in German.  For example, Bett is Bed, Katze is Cat, Pflanze is Plant, Bier is Beer, Haar is Hair, and so on.

Well sometimes a word comes up that bites you in the ass because it's a freaking lying cognate.

Der Euro.

As if it's not bad enough that I cannot understand the total cost of what I am buying and must take extra time to read something that the clerk has just said to me, I must fight with the denominations the Euro comes in.

The paper money comes in denominations of 5, 10, 20, 100, and even a 200.  There's probably larger, but under no circumstance will I ever be able to hold one in my hand.

Despite the paper Euro coming in different sizes and colors, and resembling something out of a monopoly game, I can handle it well enough.  The coins, however, were forged in Hell.

Könnten Sie bitte mein Brot shießen?

Here in Germany, every time you turn around there is either a Bakery or a cell phone store.  They're both like Starbucks.  I can't imagine why there is such high demand for cell phones, but one bite of the bread and you understand why you never have to go far to get a loaf.

Usually in Germany, you just go to the bakery (any one of your choosing) and grab a loaf of the bread you want out of a pile of loaves.  These loaves are neither wrapped nor sliced, and are usually still warm.  It's wonderful.  You then take your loaf and, without a word of German necessary, you wave it in front of the clerk and they will eventually tell you how much you owe.  At this point you look at the register, because it has numbers you actually understand, and unlike the clerk, it does not speak to you in German.

Was suchst du in deimem Wörterbuch?

If you are caught looking up a word in your dictionary in my class, the teacher will ask "Was suchst du??" meaning, "What are you searching for?"  and when you tell her, she will make an attempt to convey the meaning of the word to you.  This is all good and well, but she doesn't speak any of our languages.  So the class quickly becomes an interesting game of charades.  It gets even worse when the other students who don't speak your language are the ones that understand the word, and they all start acting the word out. 

So for instance, let's say the word is Fußarzt.  The class quickly becomes a game of Catchphrase from Hell.  You have two options:  Wait till you understand the word (which is unlikely) or just say "Ach so!", look enlightened, and pretend to write the meaning of the word down in your notebook.  I usually choose the second, which sucks just as much, because the teacher will make you use the word in a sentence.  

Arschgeiger.

The word in the subject, "Aschgeiger," is a relatively common German insult. 

It means "ass-violinist."

Yes.  That's right.

Ass...Violinist.

This is what you call someone if you don't like them.  An ass-violinist.  I hope this is one of those sayings that ends up crossing the Atlantic, because when I get back, I sure as don't want to stop calling people ass-violinist.

Freunden.

I've made a good number of friends in the weeks I've been here.  They are presented below in random order along with their nation of origin in brackets and a bit of info about the name's pronunciation. 

Molly:  [USA] Of all of the names below, this is by far the hardest for a German to pronounce.  She says "Molly" about twice, gives up and says "Mully," which they immediately understand. This is the Eighth Wonder of the World.

Hausaufgabe.

You know how it sucks when the teacher is handing back homework that you know you didn't do?  You just sit there while everyone else gets a paper and you look like a lazy ass.

Yea.  Now imagine that happening to you when you didn't know: 
    A) When the homework was turned in, and
    B) That it was even assigned to begin with.

I'VE BEEN TO CLASS EVERY FREAKING DAY, and I still somehow managed to miss her assigning the damn thing AND everyone turning it in.  Seriously, there are some major problems here.

Unterricht.

My class is pretty interesting.  There are a lot of cool people in it.  Some from Bulgaria, Turkey, Latvia, Finland, Russia, Canada, et al. and then me, from the US.  We're always translating for each other, which is great because almost no one has the same first language.

My teacher is originally from Tajikistan, speaks about 5 different languages, and has lived in Deutschland for 17 years.  This information was all imparted to us in German, so I could have gotten it all wrong.  For all i know, she may actually be from Ohio, speaks to only 5 of her dogs, and stores 17 wedges of cheese in her closet. 

Bürokratie!

Yes. That is the German word for Bureaucracy. It also means Hell.

Like I said in a previous entry, bureaucracy here is like one of those games where you have to go through hell to get one simple thing done. If you've ever played Zelda, you know what I mean. You see, in Zelda, you have to run around and take potions places and wake up sleeping people with pocket chickens and talk to weird things and take Frogs of Power and Eyes of Newt to other people before they expire so they can give you The Stone of Delightfulness that you take to a witch and in the end you get a nut. Yea. It's like that when you try to establish residency in Germany.

Kulturschok

As prepared as one may be for experiencing things that are different from their own culture, things always come around that just blow your mind (and/or your hairdryer).

Kulturschock Eins:  Germans.
People here speak German.

Kulturschock Zwei: Me.
I do not speak German.

Kulturschock Drei:  Combine Eins und Zwei.
Eins und Zwei combined suck when you are sitting in someone's reserved seat on a train.