News from the Eastern Front

This is from a good friend of mine, one of the original invitees, who declines to be named. He is currently traveling Europe and sending me (and others) biweekly updates of his European trips that are often way better than fiction. I invited him onto this thing because he has a way with words. Part of his response:

"TJ, I was thinking how I could reconcile my other writing (a book that won't get published, plus a screenplay that won't get filmed) with this blog idea, which I think is a good one. With reporting and writing this garbage on the side, I'm spending 14 hours per day in front of a computer -- way more than even my masturbation heyday."

So that's him. And just so it doesn't hurt his chance at getting his book published, I have agreed to post his stuff under a fake name.

"You can come up with the name," he writes, "although I'm partial to Harry Balzahnya."

So, Harry, welcome. And here goes:


Tomorrow I travel two hours by train to a village of 290 people with running water, but no electricity to meet a gardener who built his entire house out of hemp and is battling the government to give him a building permit while simultaneously touting his hemp house as a cure for the homeless crisis in the Czech Republic. Such episodes have summarized the last three weeks for me.

Last weekend my special ladyfriend and I traveled to Budapest. Since the train ride was eight hours, we decided to take the overnight . It started out seeming to be the best idea ever -- the train was basically empty and we knew we would have a full day ahead of us when we arrived. We traveled in a group of 13 English teachers we know because the group tickets were half price. As the night wore on, my special ladyfriend wandered off to find her own compartment to pass out in. I was busy reading War & Peace (I'm told it's time) and didn't notice that everyone else trickled off too. The next time I looked up, I was alone in the compartment with Joe, some Canadian I don't know very well. What I do know is not good. He looks (and talks) like Dirk Diggler from Boogie Nights. The teachers all call him Shirtless Joe because, as he is quoted as saying, "Clothes are itchy." Forget that it is a harsh winter in Eastern Europe; to Joe it feels like a light summer in the Maldives.

He begins telling me about this really cool book he's reading about the history of the sun, and it's written by this really cool guy who has this really cool way of explaining all of these really cool scientific ideas and tying them together in this really cool way and the whole thing is cool. Really. But he's tired of reading and wants to get high. Now the Czech Republic has lax laws about weed, but we're in Slovakia at this point and I forgot to pack my copy of the Slovak Penal Code, so I talk him out of it. Not only do I win that battle, but I also manage to fall asleep on the bench opposite him with both of us fully clothed. Next thing I know, I am awake. I smell the soft wafting of vanilla, but since I am blind as a bat without my contact lenses, I can't see a thing. I hear the voice of this Armenian-Lebanese girl I know calling my name. Immediately I'm thinking with my special ladyfriend asleep in another compartment that this is my chance to check two nationalities off of my list in one swoop. But no, she tells us that some guy just went through her bag while she was asleep and later he took Alex's wallet out of his front pocket and do we have all of our stuff? I immediately know that I do, because I always keep my wallet in a very uncomfortable place. Joe checks the pocket of his shirt, which he is now not wearing and crumpled on the floor, and his is there too. I pass back out. Next thing I know, I am awake. I smell the pungent odor of vodka fart. I hear Joe yell, "Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?" I get up and follow the smell and Joe has some huge Hungarian guy by his coat. "What's going on?" I ask. "This guy was going through my shit!" The compartment smells of mildew and alcohol. "Friend, I am friend. You have friend. Me. I am." I can feel my wallet. I can see the blurry outline of two guys in the corridor shifting from one foot to the other. "Do you have everything?" I ask. Joe lets the guy go and looks down at his stuff strewn in the compartment. "Everything that's important." We look up and everyone is gone. I'm not broken up about that, because the last thing I want is a scrum with some Hungarian thieves who have us outnumbered simply because Shirtless Joe is missing his favorite pipe. I would rather keep my scars emotional. Call me a pussy and you'd be on to something. I hurried to check on my special ladyfriend and she was asleep, completely unharmed.

The next night, Alex and I are in a bar in Budapest and I fall into conversation with a religious pilgrim on his way to Occupied Palestine. The three of us start drinking heavily and chatting about everything except that obese war criminal who just had a stroke the week before. After about an hour, in walk these four gorgeous women in matching red tube tops and hot pants with the logos of a cigarette company brandished in noticeable locations. They start giving out cigarettes, cheap lighters and painful erections to everyone in the bar. After a few minutes, the pilgrim makes eye contact with one. "Hey," he says. She slides by. A few minutes go by and so does another one. "How's it going?" he says. She scoffs. A few minutes go by and so does another. "How are you doing tonight?" he says. This one gives the cold shoulder. A few more minutes tick off of my sad, sad life. The last woman walks by. "Do you have any cigarettes for me?" he asks. She gives him the elevator eyes -- top floor to bottom floor -- and in broken English says, "For you, no." The pilgrim spent the rest of the night calling the women "bitches" who "weren't even that hot anyway."


Budapest is very rough around the edges, unlike Vienna, which looks pristine but fragile. My special ladyfriend and I went there two weekends before and I was pleased to see "Falco meets Amadeus" posters all over the city (see attached). I don't know what it was all about since they are both dead, but any day with Falco consistently in your line of sight has to be considered a good one.

Inexplicably, dozens and dozens of street vendors were setting up booths with literally thousands of little toy pigs -- girl pigs lifting up their skirts, guy pigs holding their pork, but mostly copulating pig couples (see attached) in various gravity defying positions. I know you are thinking what I was thinking: "How can she bend her legs like that when pigs don't even have knee joints? Did she choose to wear her high heels and nothing else or did he pressure her into it? And why is he staring directly at me no matter where I stand?" I wanted to ask one of the vendors what was up, but my special ladyfriend thought I would be playing the dumb tourist role. I looked for an answer on the internet, but doing a Google search for "copulating pigs" garners you some undesired results. I've asked everyone I know in the Czech Republic and the best explanation I've received is, "In Austria, pigs are considered good luck." I fail to see a direct link, but okay.

The best thing about Vienna, from my 36-hour snap judgment, is the reserved seating on the trams (see attached). I know it says something in German, but look closely at the images and they say, "Do not sit in these seats unless you are:

1. A pregnant Oompa-Loompa
2. An Oompa-Loompa with a stolen child
3. Frankie Goes to Hollywood, or
4. The Monopoly Guy.

Until then . . .
Harry Balzahnya