Back in the U.S.S.A.

I have returned, triumphantly, to America! I am currently sitting in the family room of my parents' house, resisting jet lag, doing crosswords, vainly trying to update my resume so I can apply for FIP interviews in the next couple of days, and writing to all you fine folks. Soon I'll be heading to a movie with mom.

Yesterday's journey was generally uneventful, but I did have one odd interaction. Have you ever been asked a totally out-of-place question, but since you knew the answer, you just said it, without realizing how ridiculous the question was? Well, at Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport, as I was going through security to get into my gate, I had the following exchange with the Dutch security officer:

Him: You are Maggie...Veet-lin?
Me: WHIT-lin, yes.
Him: OK. And your Hebrew name is?
Me: Malkah.
Him: Ah, Shabbat Malkah. Did you check any luggage?

At the end of the conversation he wished me a Shabbat Shalom, even though it was Thursday. Kind of cool, but kind of bizarre.

I suppose I'm signing off from Ljubrication now. Thanks so much to all of you loyal readers. It's been wonderful to read your comments and just to know you've been listening...it has made my summer sweeter. If I do password protect the blog, I'll update with access info a few days before I do.

Adijo!

The End of an Era

EuroTour 2009 has ended, according to custom and law. As I was worthy to celebrate it this year, so may I perform it in future years....Next year in Europe!

I spent most of today feeling very wistful, wandering around town with a sad smile on my face, staring longingly at the river, the buildings, the crazy protester wearing huge angry signs I couldn't understand. It all looked so beautiful.

I started off wandering over and up to Vyšehrad, the other castle, which has its very own pretty church, as well as a cemetery with such luminaries as Antonín Dvořák (the New World Symphony guy) and Karel Čapek (playwright and coiner of the word "robot"). The church really is quite pretty.

Then there was more wandering...to Kavarna Slavia for lunch, to U Sudu for wine, to Kampa Park for (a very expensive but very good) dinner, and to U Rudolfina for a final beer. All the while staring wistfully and snapping pictures when the lighting was right.



I'll miss Prague; I feel oddly comfortable in this city. I don't know what it is about it...maybe it's just the right linear combination of Ljubljana and New York, both authentically city-ish but beautiful and not too tense. I could hang out here a while longer.

And I'll miss this summer. It's been a new and exciting experience, full of good times and bum times ("...I've seen 'em all and, my dear, I'm still here. Plush velvet sometimes, sometimes just pretzels and beer, but I'm here."). Anyway, I'll write a big final post back when I'm in the states. Ah, the States, where people speak my language, washing machines and driers function, and you can go from zero to a large cup of filter coffee in just a few minutes. And the States, where most buildings were designed in the second half of the 20th Century, it's easier to find bad food than good food, and two glasses of wine a day will set you back $17 and make you look like an alcoholic. But most of the people I care about are back in the U.S.A. And more than anything, New York is my home, and so I must return. My journey must come to an end.

Will do, irritated Prague residents. Will do.

Sex! Drugs! Neogothic Stained Glass Windows!

I just had my first glass of real absinthe at Absinthe Time, a surprisingly empty tourist-targeted bar about a block from my hotel. I used my most rudimentary irrational heuristics to determine which brand to buy (not quite the most alcoholic at 68% abv, not quite the most Thujonous at 28 mg/l, not quite the most expensive), and settled on the Toulouse Lautrec. As you can see, the green fairy need not actually be green:

It tasted pretty much like anise schnapps, and I don't think it did anything that a strong glass of alcohol wouldn't do. I've read that you need two glasses to get the hallucinogenic effect, but my drinking philosophy has always been "drink until you feel good...and then stop." It made me a bore at college parties, but it's kept my headaches and idiotic behavior to a minimum. Still, please forgive any horrifically bad writing that follows.

I started today off at the Prague Castle, which is a whole little complex of buildings. The main cathedral took about 1000 years to complete, so parts are from the early middle ages, and parts are from the early 20th century. My favorite part was actually the 20th century stained glass windows:

There's not nearly enough stained glass made today. I'm sure that with modern tools we could make some incredibly intricate mosaics, but it's an out-of-fashion art. Won't somebody bring it back? Think of all the beauty there could be!

Anyway, after the unbelievably gorgeous cathedral, I went to a few less exciting parts of the castle (the palace, a lovely smaller church, a row of cute small houses) and finally wound up in the prison tower, where I saw implements of medieval torture.




OK, actually only the first is from the prison. The others are all from the Sex Machines Museum, where I spent about an hour this afternoon. I first heard about the museum from these British girls waiting with me and Natalie for the train from Ljubljana to Zagreb. When they told us about it, I vowed to go, but I had completely forgotten about the museum until I found myself standing in front of it today. Like the museum of erotica in Barcelona, the Sex Machines Museum had a copy of the two pornographic films commissioned by King Alfonso XIII of Spain (grandfather of Juan Carlos), because he loved these sorts of "pastimes for joyous rainy evenings." Apparently some of the actors are his personal friends. The movies are absolutely horrible, but that's not the point. The point is that they're PORNOGRAPHIC FILMS COMMISSIONED BY THE KING OF SPAIN.

The museum also included dildos used for, ahem, "gradual and extreme widening of the anal orifice," as the placard so nicely put it. Allow me and my guidebook (which is of normal paperback book size) to show you what they mean.

Yes, that thing has about the same dimensions as the upper half of my leg. If international criminals ever find out that this is possible, airport security is going to have a whole new beast to tame.

Also today: Kafka's house, the astronomical clock striking four pm, and two great meals. Tomorrow is my last full day in Europe. I'm sad that this crazy adventure is drawing to a close—I'm incredibly fortunate that I got to do this—but I'm also looking forward to spending some time at home with the fam and the friends. And I wouldn't turn down a good hamburger, either.

Prague Gnosis

Sorry, all the good puns were taken by the gay pornography industry. I have now spent one full day in fabulous Praha, and I'm a big fan of the city. Part of this comes from my recent trip to Dubrovnik, which made Disneyland look like an undiscovered gem of authentic local culture. While the city is, yes, ridiculously touristy, there are over a million people actually living in Prague, so it's all a nice mix of real and glamorized, which I can definitely handle. And Prague has far and away the best selection of tourist shirts I've ever seen. You've got your classic tourist shirts, your reproductions of local soccer team shirts, your obnoxious shirts (which are relatively tame here: the big frat shirt says "Praha drinking team" and has a picture of the Czech flag), your funky arty shirts, your shirts that pick out a minor bit of local culture and exploit it, etc. etc. I actually bought a shirt that straddles the last two categories, because the Golem is the coolest Jewish legend ever, and I think it looks kind of nifty.

The train ride to Prague was solid. At one point I was munching on some potato chips, and I realized nobody else in my cabin was eating, so I offered chips to the other people. They all politely refused, at which point a Slovak woman pulled out homemade pastries and made me take one. It was a warm, freshly baked circle of sweet dough, topped with a sweet cheese and cinnamon. And it was pretty much the best thing I've ever tasted. Thank you, random Slovak woman on the train.

I spent most of this morning Jewing it up in old Prague, checking out the Staronová Synagoga (the "Old New Shul," which makes you wonder what would qualify as an "old old shul," considering this dates from the 13th Century and is the oldest operating synagogue in Europe), the Spanish synagogue, an exhibit about the Golem, and, of course, the amazing Jewish cemetery.

I think it looks like the tombstones are davening.

I had my first pint of real Czech Pilsner Urquell with lunch and a great dark lager after dinner, from a microbrewery called Pivovarský Dům, which I can only assume translates as "Brewery of Doom." I also had a great Czech white wine with dinner. Perhaps tomorrow I'll finally gather my courage and try some absinthe.

As I was walking to dinner tonight, I noticed a gorgeous sunset and instantly began to take pictures.

And suddenly I began to feel morally bankrupt. I've been taking a lot of snapshots this vacation, not thinking too hard about lighting or composition (although I did appreciate the light at the cemetery), and I'm starting to feel a little guilty about it. Like, I've developed this attitude that whenever I see beauty, I reach for my camera, because it must be mine. FOREVER. This taps into a Christian sort of morality that I totally don't buy, but I'm starting to feel it more acutely. Well, two more days and I'm done with snapshots for a little while. I'll leave the moments to themselves or to my own memory and labored attempts at recreation.

Oh, and I realized that while I asked for what classes y'all are taking, I never told you what classes I'm taking. I'm almost definitely going to be in Neuroscience and Tax. Unfortunately, I think there are high school seniors in Thailand ahead of me on the wait list for Legislation, so that may be a lost cause. I'll probably get Admin out of the way, then, and I may take one more class...perhaps a behavioral econ course; we shall see. All right, after that wine and huge beer, I may be a little too tipsy to blog, so I'm going to go and rest up for another day of walking my poor feet into the grave. Just my feet, I mean. I feel ok. They're the ones that feel like they're dying. They're going to walk into the grave without me. Which might cause some problems for the rest of me, but that's beside the point for the sake of this metaphor. Jeez Louise, people.

Budalicious

I've been fortunate enough, in my life, to work in some very pretty places. My high school was about as attractive as high schools get; my residential college and law school are both super-hot; I've already shown you pictures of the Constitutional Court; and while my work building in New York was nothing special, the Flatiron District is pretty nice in general. But if I really wanted to work somewhere beautiful, I'd do my darndest to get elected to the Hungarian Parliament.

They actually meet there! It has to be the most unbelievably gorgeous place in the world, and they work in it. If they're underperforming, this has to be why.

I spent most of today in Buda, the greener, wealthier side of the city. But I started the morning off right with a chocolate croissant and cappucino from Művész Kávéház. It was (appropriately) probably the first croissant I've ever had that could rival those at the Hungarian Pastry Shop in New York.

I climbed up to the Citadel, which has views of the whole city, and some of the most outrageous tourist merchandise I've seen. ("Budapest Triathlon: Drinking, Eating, Fucking" said one shirt, with stick figure drawings of each event. Can't we at least be polite and say "schtupping?" I guess it's still better than "I think he's gay.") The one thing I find especially bothersome about tourist merchandise is that it's nigh impossible to find a shirt or hat with the name of the country...IN THE LANGUAGE OF THE COUNTRY. There are "Croatia" and "Hungary" shirts galore, but when you go to the country, wouldn't you rather have a "Hrvatska" or "Magyarorszag" shirt? I know I would. I think I've found a niche for a new business.

After walking down from the hill, I grabbed a delicious, if expensive, lunch of raspberry lemonade, goulash, and baked pasta with bacon and sour cream. I continued to an old church (under construction) and eventually to a wine tasting.

I had a rose (fine), a glass of egri bikaver (delish!), and a little Tokaji (unusual, but good).

By this point I was also chugging down water by the liter. I have a love-hate relationship with the sun, you see. I love it. My skin hates it. Click here, if you dare, to see a (somewhat unfocused) picture of my hand after walking around today. That's what a UVB allergy will do to you. In high school I got tested for this allergy. The test involved a doctor shining varying intensities of two wavelengths of light on my butt. Because I reacted to the UVB, I had red squares on one butt cheek for the next year and a half. This had absolutely no consequence, except that every so often I'd be about to step into the shower, and I'd get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I'd think "WTF...I can't believe I still have red squares on my butt." I need to be better about wearing sunscreen.

After the wining was a walk over the Chain Link Bridge to Parliament, then to coffee, and then back to my hostel. For dinner tonight I had two phenomenal dishes: Raspberry cream soup with honey, almonds, and cottage cheese balls, and cold goose liver with vegetables. Every time I eat liver, I just want to go to the Red Cross and tell them they can have as much blood as they want, because I have all the iron in the world running through my veins. We'll see if they even take my blood after all of this time in Europe.

OK, it's bed time for me. YLSers...let me know what classes you think you're taking! Oh, and I may not have internet access in Prague, but I'll do my best to update.

I've Got Hungary Eyes

And this is what they see:


It's a big weekend for a few of my friends. Claire has her last day of her internship today, and Ray is getting married tomorrow. As far as I can tell, they're equally excited about their respective milestones, which implies that Ray is extraordinarily excited for his wedding. I, however, am in Budapest, which is just fab-u-lous!

OK, it's not even that fabulous...that's just what I hear that statue saying, and I wanted an occasion to use it.

I spent the morning in the HOUSE OF TERROR, which isn't nearly as kitschy as it sounds. It's about fascism and Communism in Hungary and all of the horrible things the Nazis and Soviets did to the Hungarians. "Cool documents" abounded. Some of the most remarkable aspects of the museum (hence my remarks) included the elevator ride from the first floor to the basement—it took about two minutes, during which a video played where a man graphically described a hanging; there were subtitles in English, but if you know Hungarian, you had to either listen or cover your ears—and the "Hall of Victimizers"—a gallery of people (pictures and names) who were active in the oppression of Hungarians, many of whom are still alive (and possibly living in Hungary) today.

I had lunch at Kádár Étkezde, a great little place in the Jewish quarter. I was given the options of boiled beef with tomato sauce and mashed potatoes, boiled beef with cherry sauce and mashed potatoes, and boiled beef with apple sauce and mashed potatoes. (Ok, ok, there were other options, too, but those three formed a solid chunk of the menu.) I went with the apple sauce, which was very tasty. To drink, I had a raspberry soda (lovely), but they also had a bottle of seltzer water at the table. I put a glass in front of the spout, squeezed the handle, and managed to spray the water hard enough that it ricocheted off the glass and splattered half of the wall next to me. I'm a spaz.

After that, the synagogue! My maternal grandfather's parents were both Hungarian Jews, so I figured this would be a good way to get in touch with the ancestors. Really, I just became annoyed at the synagogue renovations in Westchester. Why do they look like this when they could look like this:


They sure do know how to do their synagogues right, those Hungarian Jews.

After some more walking around, I rested my poor soles at the Széchenyi Baths. It was indeed nice to hang out in warm water for a while, but I got a little bored, especially because I felt I had to keep an eye on my towel at all times, so I couldn't fully relax. I'm not very good at the whole "fully relaxing" thing anyway.

I got some good dinner at Paprika and headed on back to my hostel, which is where I am at this very moment.

A quick observation on Hungary, perhaps tainted by my run-in with the law last night (see update below). Hungary seems to expect everyone to be both obedient and competent. In America (and most other places I've been), you're expected to be one or the other. If you absolutely must do something (pay a toll, buckle up in an airplane, fill out your W-4), you will be given extremely explicit instructions, and someone will be there to make sure you do what you're told. If you don't need to do something (climb a tree, open a beer bottle, drive a stick shift) then you may be left to figure out how to do it yourself. Here, you're expected to figure out how to do things on your own, and if you don't you will be punished. The stamping of the subway ticket is just one example. If you have to enter a museum, there will be a ticket taker, but he will not be standing at the door awaiting your ticket. He will be sitting off to the side, chatting with a friend, but if you just walk in without giving him your ticket, he'll get annoyed with you. You must use a locker at the baths, but there are no instructions telling you that you have to put a card into the back of the lock or you won't be able to take out the key. It's all a little bit disorienting, and after being babied by American government and companies, I'm not sure I like it.

OK, I'm going to attempt to go out with people from my hostel. But I might chicken out. Because I hate going out with people I don't know. But I feel it's one of those things I "should do," because being comfortable with people I just met is an important skill to have in life. It's just not my idea of a vacation. Later, loyal readers.

Du. Dubrov. Dubrovnik.

It's a moderately attractive place.



I didn't have internet for my computer in Dubrovnik, so I'm writing this on TextEdit as I hurdle through the Hungarian countryside on the 15.45 train from Zagreb - Gl. Kol. to Budapest - Kaleti. We are currently stopped at Balatonszentyorgy, which just happens to be my favorite type of orgy. My passport is getting awesomer by the day. The EU has these great stamps that have the country in the upper left, surrounded by EU stars, the point of entry/departure in the bottom middle, and on the upper right, a picture of your mode of transportation. So I have these cute "leaving Slovenia via train" and "entering Hungary via train" stamps now. This, as I see it, is the main advantage of Croatia not being a member of the European Union.

Natalie and I made the trek to Dubrovnik on Monday, training out of Ljubljana early in the morning, walking for twenty minutes through (shockingly gorgeous) Zagreb to the bus station, bussing to the airport, flying fifty-five minutes to Dubrovnik, bussing a half hour to Pile Gate and walking to our hostel, where the lovely Marko greeted and oriented us. We walked the city walls, which is the best thing to do in Dubrovnik, for two reasons. First, the views of the Old City are just gorgeous.



Yes, I count Natalie and myself among the gorgeous views.

Second, it gets you just a little bit out of the tourist hell that is Dubrovnik. Everyone walks the city walls, but not everyone walks them at the same time (largely because not everyone has Marko to tell them that approximately 8 am and 5 pm are the best times to walk them). The streets below, on the other hand, manage to (barely) hold every tourist in Europe at once. There isn't a square inch inside the Old City that isn't devoted to squeezing money out of tourists. This leads to an incredible proliferation of Dubrovnik/Croatia gear, which I don't really mind, especially since I couldn't find a single decent-looking Ljubljana t-shirt in Ljubljana. But it also leads to "fun" offensive gear that makes Manhattan's "New York Fuckin' City" shirts look like something Anne O'Hagen would wear.*

We actually saw a kid wearing the shirt on the left. As you know, I'm not a big fan of criticizing parents, but I could hardly object to the long glare Natalie gave the boy's mother.

Despite the overwhelming tourism, we managed to do cool things. We went to the second oldest synagogue in Europe, founded in 1642 and located on the appropriately named "Ulica Žudioska," i.e., "Jew Street." (Greg, I fully expect you to start writing a song with the chorus, "I'm moving up, I'm moving out, I'm moving to Jew Street: Jew Street, U.S.A!") The synagogue was awfully nice, and it was cool to see some cool historical documents, including parallel orders from the 16th and 20th Centuries ordering the Jews of Dubrovnik to wear self-identifying badges. I guess what constitutes a "cool" historical document is up for debate.

We also did some serious beaching. Here, Natalie informs me in the only way she can that there are fish in the water.

And yesterday we did Adriatic Kayak Tours' "Wine & Cheese Sunset Paddle" from Sv. Jakov's beach around the Old City, out to Lokrum island for a picnic, and back to the beach. My left arm is pathetically sore, and Natalie and I got showed up not only by Jon, a red-bearded Scotsman and experienced kayaker, but also by a younger-side-of-middle-aged British couple. The kayaking was fun, though, and the views were, of course, stunning. My camera was in a dry bag while we were kayaking, so I didn't get any pictures then. But I did take a few on the island, featuring the peacocks that roamed free there, this gorgeous natural lake and cave in the middle of the island, and our guide Vedral(?) in front of the Adriatic.



When we got back to the beach, the sun was just setting over the Old City.

Today has been another travel day. Natalie and I parted ways in Zagreb; she's heading back to Ljubljana for the night before flying into JFK tomorrow, while I head to Budapest to see pretty buildings, eat goulash, and relax in those famous Hungarian baths. I hope to be able to update live from the big city.

UPDATE: Live, from the big city! I hadn't been in Budapest for 25 minutes when I was slammed with a 6000 Forint ($32) fine for failing to get my ticket stamped as I entered the subway (irrespective of lack of signs, subway staff, or sample riders to indicate otherwise). Curse you, Hungary!


*Sorry; little joke for the small groupies there. Anne was our always impeccably-dressed TA.

Nasvidenje, Ljubljana!

So, this is it. My last night in the beautiful city of Ljubljana. It hasn't quite hit me yet that I'm leaving the place I just spent two months, and I may never return. I'll return. I think I'll return. Exploring with Natalie and getting her reactions to everything in the city has made me see the place with new eyes. It's really a gorgeous town with solidly friendly, relaxed people, good wine and good food (Natalie has called both last night's mushroom soup and this morning's hot chocolate "the best thing [she's] ever tasted"), and plenty of nooks and crannies. We went to Metelkova Mesto again last night, and Natalie agreed with me that it's just about the coolest thing ever. We can't believe we haven't seen a movie about it, yet...it really feels like a sort of fantasy alternative artists' commune—sort of like the one in Berlin in Passing Strange—but it's all real.

Today Natalie and I went up to the castle. Just this week they finally opened the tower, which had been under renovation since last October. The tower looks oddly cheap from far away, as though they put up cardboard instead of stone, but up close it's all a lovely marble. We got a great 360° view of the city, which maximized the red-roofiness of it all and let us see Ljubljana's most important landmarks from above.

And Natalie and I took the requisite "we don't feel like asking these Norwegian tourists to take our picture" picture.

My glasses look extremely professorial. Tonight I'll say goodbye to my roommates, although Roberto may drag himself out of bed to say goodbye early tomorrow morning. Then Natalie and I take the 8:15 train to Zagreb, grab a quick breakfast there, walk to the bus terminal, go to the airport, fly to Dubrovnik, and check into our hostel. I hope this all works as planned. If so, by this time tomorrow I will be in one of the most beautiful places in the world. And I can stop linking everyone to this picture and provide a few snapshots of my own.

I'll miss this place. I'll miss its cheap, flavorless beer. I'll miss the random stuff market. I'll miss the not-quite-car-free cobblestone streets. I'll miss the crummy waiter service accompanied by a willingness to let you sit at a restaurant for as long as you want. I'll miss the guy selling magazines to make a buck in every tourist-filled area of town. I'll miss the phrase "dober dan." Roberto, I think I'm going to miss you most of all.

I'll check in with y'all from EuroTour 2009.

Drunk Driving: Relatively Harmless

If we're ever going to get laws passed prohibiting cellphone use while driving, I think that has to become the new rallying cry. "If you're at the legal limit, go ahead and drive! A .08 BAC is no worse than chatting on a hands-free set with grandma! That's totally legal, so how bad could drunk driving possibly be!?"

Seriously. It's great that my BFFs at the NHTSA (I got tons of data for my seat belt paper from them) have finally released research showing the dangers of talking while driving, but it's been obvious for years that cellphone conversations in the car are dangerous, and the danger has nothing to do with your hands. It's all in your head, baby. We learned that in Brian Scholl's cog sci class in 2004, and I don't think the research was all that cutting-edge then.

My fellow Americans, look to your left. Look to your right. Now do that another forty-one times with new neighbors. One of those people will die in a motor vehicle accident. Wouldn't it be nice to lower that number just a bit? Doesn't everyone deserve the right to waste away from cancer of some-organ-you-never-knew-you-had at age ninety seven? I think so. (If you are not one of my fellow Americans, you can attempt to infer the number of requisite head turns from this.)

I know, it would be extremely inconvenient never to talk on a cellphone in the car. You know what else is inconvenient? Being stuck somewhere at 3 am with nobody sober to drive, a completely incompetent taxi service, and a house only four miles away. But pretty much everyone knows that driving in that situation is just not acceptable. Certainly they all would if they had seen my award-winning fourth grade safety poster: "Drink and Drive? You won't be alive!" Unfortunately my fifth grade effort—"Don't fall for drugs," with a picture of a blindfolded girl plummeting onto upturned syringes—lost to Mona (then Bonnie) Weiss's poster about not petting wild animals. There are some losses I may never accept, but I'll gladly that concede Mona deserved that victory.

Oh, and I think I'm going to TA an undergrad class next year. I'm getting pretty excited about it, even though it's going to be a huge time suck and will prevent me from taking a class I wanted. I really need to try teaching at some point, so this should be a good way to accomplish that.

Natalie comes tomorrow! Yay! And it's also my last day at the court, which will be spent entirely on my paper for school.

Here's the YouTube video of the week. Video's pretty much safe for work. Audio's not. Enjoy trying not to sing the song to yourself in public.

Stop, Facebook. You're Embarrassing Us Both.

My Facebook homepage brings shame upon me and shame upon Facebook.

Me first (as always): That right-hand column of the homepage, where pictures, videos, notes appear totally remembers who's stuff you've clicked on and continues to promote that person's postings. Some of this I don't really mind: Dani, a girl I knew in high school, has a lot of hot male friends who are half-naked in many of her pictures, and I'm not embarrassed to say her photo albums get more than their fair share of clicks. But for some of my frequent clickees, I'd prefer they not dominate the entire right column with pictures posted two months ago that just got another comment. If Facebook at some point starts keeping track of profile views, I'm doomed. I'll start getting messages like, "Dearest Facebook user: We'd tell you to ask out Joe Schmo already, but we're pretty sure from his click patterns that he's gay. Sorry! Maybe we can suggest a date with Jack Sprat, who's clicked on you a substantial but not obsessive number of times." At which point I'm switching back to Friendster.

Facebook next: I haven't read Facebook's privacy policy in a while, but I think I'd know if they told me they'd be actively dipping into my gmail address book. And they most definitely are. At first that friend suggestion box in the upper right was pretty innocuous. I figured there was some algorithm where they looked at percentage of friends shared with another person and suggested them. And then my real estate agent showed up. This is the guy who found me and Amy our Hell's Kitchen apartment in early 2006. We have zero Facebook friends in common. We have zero real friends in common. We haven't had any contact in years. But his email address is in my address book, and there he is. I thought maybe it was a fluke, but recently a researcher I once contacted through my gmail account showed up. Unless Facebook has other reasons for suspecting I might be interested in research on children of gay parents (and I suppose it might), it's digging through my stuff.

I'm generally not a big privacy person—I think the world would be better if we all knew how weird other people are—but the crazy thing about privacy violations is that they're always just one step away from dangerous. Watch it, Facebook.

Songs In My Head

Sorry, fun law post fans. We're on another sappy personal post today. BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME.

The summer after my freshman year of college, for some reason I don't remember, I decided to see a therapist in Westchester. There were two things I liked about him: He thought the problems I had in my high school relationship were pretty mundane and not evidence of any larger issues, and his mannerisms reminded me of my friend Cat's dad Bob, who tends to crack me up. There were two things I didn't like about him: While it was nice that he thought I wasn't messed up, he tended to err on the side of not taking me especially seriously, and he spent most of our sessions trying to convey to me how big of a deal he was in the world of psychology. I cared a lot, as you might imagine. Anyway, one of the ways he proposed to demonstrate I was an easy case for him was that I tell him about a song stuck in my head, and he would tell me what it meant. Party tricks at the shrink's office! Woohoo!

Shockingly enough, I actually did have a line running through my head at the time. It was half from Fiddler on the Roof and half from La Cage aux Folles: "Here in Anatevka, we live life—how shall I put it?—on an angle." He told me it was my own personal commentary on the weirdness of Westchester (I think he actually started his sentence with "Well, that's easy..."). If you're still picturing 18 year old me accurately, you see me fanning myself with excitement, batting my eyelashes and exclaiming, "Why, doctor! You have the most marvelous insight into my little mind!" In other words, his party trick did absolutely nothing for me, not least because the songs in my head when I was 18 didn't bear a great relationship to my emotional state.

But they totally do now. It's scary.

Allow me to lead you through the last week and a half...in musical theater! I recommend listening to the YouTube links but not necessarily watching them. Some of the actors are better than others.

The beginning of last week was all Stephen Sondheim's The Miller's Son (lyrics). It's almost certainly my favorite Sondheim song, and the all-time greatest artistic defense of slutdom.

There was no music on Thursday.

Starting Friday, as things got better and I got into "anticipating nostalgia" mode, I switched over to Bill Finn's phenomenal ballad When the Earth Stopped Turning (lyrics). He wrote the song after the death of his mother, and it is explicitly about dying, but it really works beautifully for any expected parting of people. Plus, I think it operates as the perfect defense against anyone who thinks cuss words are always inappropriate or uncreative. (I highly recommend downloading the Carolee Carmello recording of this one instead of listening to the YouTube video. It's available on iTunes.)

And then today, as I moved into the first stages of actual nostalgia, I came to Jerry Herman's Song on the Sand (you can catch all the lyrics by listening, but whatever). I've actually never loved Song on the Sand. I can't help but think of the Forbidden Broadway where Robert Goulet mumbles "I sing la da da da, da da da, when I don't know the words..." But I guess any song that can into my head via the route of under my skin gets some points.

So, our "fifth roommate" came late last night. I haven't seen her yet, but I'm intimidated by her awesome Pasta del Capitano toothbrush. All I have is some little Colgate thing. But nothing can overtake my huge, clunky, I-can't-possibly-need-this Intuition razor. If only I could get this worked up about the paper I have to finish by Friday afternoon.

EDIT: Just met her. She seems really sweet. I need dinner and wine. So much wine.

Ah Have Always Depended...

Yesterday, Roberto and I headed up to Šmarna Gora, a large hill about 10 km northwest of central Ljubljana. We spent a full hour waiting for the number 8 bus, the only one that goes out there, before a young guy informed us that it doesn't run on Sundays. Moral of the story: Ask the young guys. Old ladies and bus drivers will just misinform you. So we caught an overpriced cab out to Šmarna Gora. (Yes, it is fun to say! No, you are not crazy if you walk the streets pretending to hex people by looking at them sideways for three seconds and then spitting out "Šmarna Gora!" At least I hope not.) We hiked up the "hill"—2,000 feet is definitely pushing my "hill" limits—and got some gorgeous views of the city and the mountains, including Triglav, Slovenia's highest peak.

I think that's it, at least. They don't exactly have signs pointing it out to you. They do, however, have a cute cafeteria with fried dough and sweet tea, which is much appreciated after the trek. Ah, and I shall post the requisite "We Wuz Here" picture:

As you will recall, we had picked up a cab in Ljubljana because no buses were running, so as we stood at the top of the hill, staring at the mountains, I asked Roberto, "So, how are we going to get back from here?" "I have the number of the company." "Oh, great! And you have your phone with you?" "...." So there we were, miles away from town with no way to get back, and since we're such adventurous people, we went down the hill to the less occupied side, where we found ourselves deep in burbville.

The first thing that struck us was the smell: garbage mixed with cow manure. We got quickly away from the garbage, but the cow manure smell remained, and we soon realized we were next to a large barn filled with (wait for the shocker...!) cows. A dog came running down from the driveway, yapping at us. We walked as fast as we could away from the stench, and the dog backed off, extremely proud of itself for driving away the intruders. We walked along the road that looked most likely to lead to civilization, and after a few blocks, we came upon a few people standing in a driveway, including a woman pushing a stroller.

"Dober dan." "Dan. Do you speak English?" "Eh, a little." Often the answer. We told the woman that we were lost and trying to get back to Ljubljana, and she told us to follow her. We got to her house, where a whole bunch of people were sitting in the driveway. They began to argue in Slovene, and finally the woman's husband (I presume) said, "OK, I will drive you to the bus station!" And he did. He dropped us off at the (functional-on-Sundays) number 1 stop, a few miles away, and actually gave us tokens so we could ride the bus for free.

Yeah, yeah, so he told Roberto he's from "not really Italy" because he's from Calabria, in the far south, and he told me that Miami (where his friends live) is "not really the United States" because there are so many Cubans there, but he was a completely random stranger who just gave us a ride to the station and paid our bus fare. That's pretty amazing. In America, I'd be happy to find people who wouldn't walk away before I could ask to use their phone to call a cab. I remember once asking a random woman at a New York flea market if I could use her cell phone to call my friends who had wandered off. I might as well have told her I wanted to call the Messiah. New Yorkers don't touch other New Yorkers' cell phones.

So that was our fun and exciting adventure yesterday.

On a less fun and exciting note, I found out I didn't make law journal. I'm pretty upset about it...it's something I really wanted to do (and, yes, sure, to have done), and I worked very hard throughout the whole admissions process. I had told people I'd be upset if I didn't make it, and there's no reason to pretend I'm not. I've gone through all sorts of extremely mature thoughts—This sort of thing will keep me humble, and humility is a virtue! Bluebooking is a valuable skill, and this process forced me to learn it! I'll have more time for classwork, and I always wish I had more time for my classes!—but really, I just need a little time to be pissed off. The friends I've been bitching to have been wonderful (about this and about other personal stuff), and they're helping me not to think less of myself because of this.

And it's been nice to have Roberto around, who couldn't care less whether I'm on law journal or whether I didn't finish high school. I'm sure if/when I start dating somebody seriously, that person will appreciate my mind (yeah, I know that sounds douchey, but everyone who reads this blog is super-smart, too, so chill), and a large part of our relationship will be an intellectual connection. And there is certainly some element of intellectual connection with Roberto. But there's something very...nice, I guess...about someone liking me just because we share a sort of natural connection and rapport, and it feels nice when we smile at each other. How does the old saying go, "Tell the smart woman she's beautiful and the beautiful woman she's smart?" Something like that? It's an obnoxious saying, but there's more than a little bit of truth there.

Congratulations for making it to the end of the post! As a reward, you get a Wyatt Cenac segment (Cenac is currently edging out John Oliver as my favorite regular Daily Show correspondent) featuring Steve-o* Carter. Enjoy:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Judgmental
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Joke of the Day

*Professor Carter: If by some miracle you've made it to this page, welcome! Yes, I am making fun of your (and your father's) somewhat extreme views on formal address. But I hope you will not confuse my editorializing with actual disrespect. Also, a friend points out that you got the parties who appointed Sotomayor to the different courts backwards. I just used Hamer v. Sidway in a gchat conversation, though, so all is forgiven.

Ljubrication Mentioned (I Think?) In Slate (Sort Of)!

The great Adam Chandler has written an awesome post for Slate's blog, XX Factor. (Motto: What women really think. Conclusion: Adam thinks like a girl. Ooooooh.) He discusses how the Sotomayor hearings and other public combings of prominent people's minds can discourage students from voicing their beliefs. And he is so right. This fall, our Con Law professor made us post on a discussion board once a month (an aspect of the class I generally appreciated), but there were at least a few times when I thought of posting something controversial and realized very quickly that if I said anything verboten in that group of people, it would undoubtedly come back to haunt me later if I were ever publicly vetted for anything (probably in the form of polite but cutting questions from Secretary of Defense Geltzer). When a professor canvassed our class to see if anyone wanted to write a paper on drug legalization with him, one friend warned me that I might not want to apply to jobs with that article as my major academic publication. And, come to think of it, if you search for my full name on Google, one blog post (moderately NSFW) on page four of the results is titled, "These Will Come in Handy at the Confirmation Hearings." The author is talking about the men I photographed, not me, I imagine, but it shows how much we now think of everything we say and do in terms of how it will kick us in the butt 30 years down the road. And how "confirmation hearings" have become the central symbol of this.

And Adam's affirmative action example is spot on. If you want to do a scientific analysis of affirmative action, you'd better hope it comes out in a non-controversial way. And if you're hoping that hard, you're probably not the right person to do the science. We read Richard Sander's law school affirmative action study in a class this year, and while there are certainly valid criticisms to be made about his study (although I didn't find the central Ayres/Brooks contention extremely compelling), did he really need to descend to pariah status? It may be that he now spends so much time defending AA stuff that he's not a credible researcher, but this would seem to be a fallout of the constant berating he gets for an imperfect but pretty good piece of work (you should see how bad econometrics studies can be) on a controversial topic. I'm getting off track here, but the point is that bright students can't explore interesting and under-researched questions because the reputational stakes are so, so high. If you touch affirmative action with anything but the deftest hand, you're not making it anywhere near those confirmation hearings.

I almost forgot! The (possible) mention! Adam writes: "I even read a perfectly innocuous blog post about the writings of several law school classmates that ended with a disclaimer: If anyone mentioned in the post wanted to 'clear it from their record,' it would be taken down." I'm not positive that he was referring to this post (chime in in the comments Adam?), but it seems at least plausible, even though I didn't use the phrase "clear it from their record." Emma's comment on Noorain's link to Adam's post (phew!) hit on truth: the comment about embarrassing Google searches was referring more to the fact that I was talking about the authors' desirability as mates than to the views they were espousing. But even before I decided to write about their singleness I gave the authors nicknames, partially to be cute, but also to break up their first and last names so the post wouldn't show up in searches. But now it is too bad for you, Adam! Your names are together in my post FOREVER. And you're the only Adam Chandler in the world! And this blog is first on every Google search! Well, now I'm just making stuff up. Which means it's time for bed. Goodnight!

On The Decline

I'm pulling my signature move again: the ol' post title with a double meaning. If anyone else ever does that—EVER—just assume they're copying me and generally want to be me.

On the decline 1: I asked my officemate about the Slovenian language today, and my worst fears were confirmed. They decline their nouns. Now, I sort of realized they did something to their nouns out of the ordinary, but it turns out it's full on declination. There are six forms of every noun, and there are four different female declinations, three male declinations, and two neuter declinations (if I recall the numbers correctly). That's at least 54 different noun forms (and I gather I'm missing quite a few). Why you would ever need to differentiate a direct object from a, like, slightly-out-of-the-way-but-it-will-get-you-there-faster-with-traffic object is beyond me. Although you probably do save on prepositions. And heaven knows English could use to lighten its prepositional load.

On the decline 2: As those of you who frequent gchat may know, it's been a week of some emotional turmoil for me, mostly related to my favorite Italian roommate and finding out things I both wish I didn't know and wish I'd known from the beginning. Stuff is about as resolved now as it's going to be, although we can't really go back (to earlier this week). Things were so lovely and relatively simple, but now our relationship is fraught.

"Fraught," by the way, is my new favorite word. Do you ever go through a period where a word you've known forever but only occasionally used starts seeming appropriate for every situation? I'll bet you do! (That, I'll have you know, was not in the least bit patronizing compared to the Sotomayor hearings, which from now on will be my standard for how patronizing I can be.) Everything these days seems "fraught." When my officemate told me that Slovenians have a very low bar for how much you can appropriately talk about your own accomplishments (she may have been subtly hinting that every time I mention my law school I sound like a douche), I described the American attitude toward bragging as "fraught." You don't want to be obnoxious, but you have the right to be somewhat proud, and people will care about your successes, so hiding them makes you look like you're either savoring your secret or fishing for compliments, and the very fact that you're agonizing about what level of revelation is appropriate probably means you think you're hot stuff, and that's worse than being insecure enough to talk about yourself constantly. See? It's fraught. It's like being "complicated," but expressly negative and without the whole Avril Lavigne connotation.

In any case, despite the fraught-ness Roberto and I headed to the castle yesterday for polka. Yes, that's right. The castle. For polka. It turned out to be this tiny lesson for tourists, so we sat at the cafe and watched. It was most entertaining. And the view from the castle was, of course, lovely and Alpy.

And Roberto and I are a somewhat lovely (if less Alpy) view ourselves.

Ah, me. Oh! And Roberto was recently featured (i.e., caught walking down the street) in Mobil, Slovenia's premier free car-interest magazine.

The fame is overwhelming.

Summery Judgment

It is good. It is very good.

Lake Bled ranks high on the Most Beautiful Places on Earth list. We spent the weekend (read: Saturday) walking up to the castle and around the lake, rowing to the island and back (go Dad!) and eating good food including kremna rezina. It was nice to spend some low key time with the parents and commune just a bit with the great outdoors. And now I have pictures of my very own!



I'm working on a memo about certiorari for work...I sort of decided to do it myself, because I think knowing about SCOTUS's system (and why it's problematic but not a complete train wreck) will be important during the court's quest to not decide 2000 cases a year. Also, the first case where I had some mild input was decided last week. The court said that a difference in inheritance law between marriages and same-sex unions was unconstitutionally discriminatory. Did they actually use my work? Good question. I haven't yet been able to find the opinion, but I'll let you know as soon as I do. Meanwhile, I'm happy for Slovenia, which is apparently significantly more progressive on gay issues than America.

And I'm also happy for the awesome small-groupie who was on TV today, behind Al Franken at the Sotomayor hearings!

Go, Beth. It's your birthday. We gonna party like it's your birthday.

Other than that, I've been chilling, working on my paper, and spending quality time with Roberto. I can't seem to take a decent picture of him. I think my camera's cursed or something. I assure you: Roberto is not red, and he does not have bulging eyes. And yet...

I know, I know. As things in life get better, the posts get duller. No more random observations like, "this city is so small that apparently the better-known waiters and hairdressers are the primary subjects of tabloid gossip." Except for that one. Yeah, it's true.

By The Waters

I'm blogging live (unlike most of my posts, which are carefully smuggled past the censors and published weeks later) from beautiful Lake Bled. I have pictures but not the cable that connects my camera to the computer, so you'll have to make do with outside shots. Note: The outside shots seriously misrepresent the current color of the sky and visibility of the mountains. They do not, however, misrepresent the overall gorgeousness of the lake area. The parents and I got here after a lovely hour-long bus ride, which took us through a not-insignificant portion of Slovenia. It really is a beautiful country.

Speaking of "by the waters," Roberto showed me some photos of his hometown last night. Photos like this. And this. And this. I mean, I did grow up just a couple of miles from the Long Island Sound, so I figure we had pretty much the same experience. Not to insult the Sound—it's quite lovely as sounds go—but it sure ain't the Mediterranean.

Adam came this week, which was a treat. I think at his sightseeing pace he managed to see as much in one day as my parents saw in five. We walked around and chatted, had meals with my parents, and generally had a nice time. It was great to see a friend over here. By the way, if any of YOU want to be that friend, please consider coming to Budapest and Prague with me from July 30th to August 6th. Natalie's joining me for leg one of EuroTour 2009 (Ljubljana and Dubrovnik from July 24th to July 30th), but then she has to "work" (excuses, excuses), so I'm on my own. But I'd love company. Spread the word.

It's great that so much has been going on this past week or so, but I can't help feeling a little sad that it's all happening at once, and so close to the end of my stay. For the first five weeks, I spent pretty much all my time alone wishing I had just one person to hang out with. Now I'm at Bled with my parents, which is great, I've been looking forward to it, but I also kind of wish I was spending the weekend back in the apartment in Ljubljana. I know, I know, your pity is overwhelming. But it's my blog and I'll kvetch if I want to. Pshaw.

Ljubljana: Now With 200% More Jews

My parents are here! I've had a lovely couple of nights eating, walking, and chilling with them. Last night was dinner at Julija and drinks at Dvorni bar, next to the river. A little after 10 (not far from their bedtime, anyway), I ditched the folks to watch an Italian movie with Roberto. The movie wasn't much—sort of like Mean Girls without the humor and with a crazy and bitter father—but it was nice to collapse and watch something for a while. Roberto was heading to Italy at 2 am (certainly my favorite time to head to Italy) and was planning on pulling a relative all nighter of chilling, but I was zonked after the movie and headed to bed.

Tonight the parents and I ate at Ljubljanski dvor (related to the wine bar), my favorite pizzeria in town, although I haven't yet tried Napoli; those two places, along with Foculus and Trta seem to be the big contenders for the "best pizza" prize. My mom and I split two pies: zucchini, garlic, and mozzarella on one and mozzarella, brie, and parmesan on the other. So, soooo good. Then we all walked to the Dragon Bridge and got dessert at Cacao. And now I'm home, finishing up Matt's latest puzzle (I like it, Matt! More comments tk.) and gearing up to book my post-Ljubljana travels. And Adam's coming to hang out tomorrow! Life is rich these days. Woot.

These Walls Can Talk

So, I almost titled this post: "I have a vagina. Not a pussy. Not a snatch. A vagina." But then I realized people might read these posts at work, and titles are big, and not everyone's employer is down with edgy feminist thought that involves discussions of appropriate names for genitalia (relevant link). Had I given the post that title, however, it would have been ripped from this fine piece of graffiti:

I may have mentioned this before, but I love the graffiti here. Some of it is your typical anti-fascist sloganeering, but a lot of it is beautifully and hilariously rude,

and some of it is just downright creepy and beautiful.


I can't get enough.

Tonight I went to dinner with the lovely Roberto at a Serbian restaurant. I went for the "order the thing you can't translate" technique (Plejeskavica with Kajmak), which I've done frequently in foreign countries, to decidedly mixed results. The waiter asked if we'd like to split a salad. Normally I turn down the random waiter-suggested salads, but I figured that whatever I'd just ordered was probably a big plate of meat, so I got us the salad. Then my dish came, and I was shocked to find it was...a big plate of meat! Specifically, an IHOP pancake-sized sausage meat patty, sitting in a creamy sauce. It was fine, but I only ate about half, and I was so glad to have the tomato/cucumber/pepper salad, too.

After the meal, Roberto and I went a'wanderin', which was very lovely. Even with his mediocre English and my non-existent Italian, we managed to talk pretty smoothly. We wandered through the main plaza, down Trubarjeva cesta into a funky little almost-abandoned area, up the east side of Center, and into Metelkova mesto, where I got Roberto to bond with some of the wall art:

Since I seem to have only photographed Roberto at night, the blinding flash hasn't been especially flattering. But if you want to see hotter pictures, here are a few from Facebook.

I just showed Roberto the picture and said he said he looked weird because he was drunk. Then I reminded him we only got drunk after I took the picture. Jalla Jalla in Metelkova mesto is famed for their schnapps. Now, I've never had straight up schnapps before, just a little bit of peppermint in the hot chocolate (highly recommended during a cold New England winter), but that stuff is strong. Sweet (I had asked for honey, but I think I got cherry), but so, so strong. So after a tiny plastic cupful, we were both a little unsteady on our feet. He told me he was drunk, and I told him I'd protect him if any evil people tried to take advantage of him. The nice thing about a bit of a language barrier is you can be blatantly flirtatious and the other person doesn't notice. The annoying thing about a bit of a language barrier is you can be blatantly flirtatious and the other person doesn't notice.

Anyway, my parents are coming tomorrow! I'm very excited to see them. With my roommates, my parents, and Adam (the high school friend math nerd Adam, not to be confused with the law school friend math nerd Adam) coming Wednesday, suddenly I have a social life! How exciting.