After two days of resting and recovering from my injury, I decided to try to get back in the saddle yesterday for a nice, slow, controlled ride. In the morning I went out with Gabor on a horse he dubbed the "old grandmother" of the stable, and we took a long, leisurely walk through the country with some occasional nice trotting. Still a pretty good workout, still a lot of fun, and definitely a good way to spend the morning so that I wouldn't start going stir crazy in my bedoom watching CNN (which Gabor mercifully rigged onto my TV). I pretty much had to teach myself how to ride one-handed, since I can't really put too much pressure on my left hand without risking reinjury. I was pretty wary of this set-up at first; seriously, I can't even a ride a bike one-handed without crashing gracelessly into the concrete. (Although, come to think of it, I find bikes rather more unpedictable than horses. That gravity is tricky business.) But it turned out just fine, especially while riding a horse who I think was just as anxious to take it easy as I was.
There's definitely still a lot to do here at Pokvar, and I have been keeping busy since fracturing my hand last week. I'm certainly getting to do a lot of swimming, more sightseeing than I had expected, and, happily, spending a lot of time getting to know the other guests.
Unfortunately, though I have my suspicions that she understands English perfectly, she speaks not a word of it, sadly depriving us of her snarky, sarcastic commentary. But nevertheless, she is acutely precocious, in a somewhat startling way for someone so young and so tiny (note the sunglasses, the earrings, the bandana... unfortunately you can't see the fuscia ballet flats here.) Perpetually bored by everything around her, Ginny also has the distinct privilege (and, I might add, psychological handicap) of being obviously the prettiest and, most likely, the smartest of the Swedish sisters. When her dad is not forcing her to play soccer or badminton, or go on boring tours of old churches, she sits here in the computer room chatting with her friends on MSN, sends incessant text messages, and runs out to the driveway when she can get a phone signal so she can rack up huge international fees gossiping and gabbing. I might find this behavior annoying if I didn't find it so incredibly fascinating. The fact that Ginny acts so much like an adult woman, but in that tiny little form, is weirdly scintillanting. And I can't help but look with amazement, and some envy, at the very young life in front of me, one that is dying to get out of the young part and onto the fun part. Ginny has never had her heart broken. She has never, up to this point in her life, failed at anything. She has never lost someone close and dear to her, or felt so hurt by someone else that she questioned her own self worth. These are challenges that all of us, to some degree or other, have been through in our own lives, and that every young girl will face eventually. And while I don't envy her the agony of facing those challenges, I found myself envying her position of opportunity to start catching lemons as they come and squeezing them into great lemonade. I felt myself reminiscing bizarrely about myself at that age -- I say bizarrely not because it's weird to have that reaction, but because it made me think that my own ten-year old behavior was equally outlandish. Wasn't I about ten when Katie and I decided to dress as hippies all the time? When I insisted on calling her from a Delta Skyphone en route to San Diego because it had been more than three hours since we'd spoken? When we used to find ways to secretly call each other at eleven o'clock at night so our calls would be undetected by parents, and talk for hours and hours and hours everyday? When we used to complain about how long the bus ride home was, because it delayed our ability to rush home and dial each other up again? For Christ's sake -- what was there so much to talk sbout? Surely it wasn't all about boys, right, because at some point we'd have had to have exhausted the subject? Ah, but no... even today we have not found the end of that conversation.
Sic Volvere Parcas.
There's definitely still a lot to do here at Pokvar, and I have been keeping busy since fracturing my hand last week. I'm certainly getting to do a lot of swimming, more sightseeing than I had expected, and, happily, spending a lot of time getting to know the other guests.This morning Gabor took me back to the hospital where I was supposed to be getting my new, more permanent cast. On the way there, he explained to me that he had taken the personal cell phone number of the physician's assistant the last time we were there, and that we could just call him to have him meet us at the entrance. Then, for a few extra forints, he would potentially help us to move to the front of the line. Interesting, I thought, I guess there will be some bribery involved here afterall. I was beginning to get nervous about how much this accident was going to
cost me. I haven't been able to get a hold of my insurance company, and I'm dreading the probable discovery that they won't cover an emergency room visit in Hungary, and I had yet to see a bill for either of my visits. Tacking on the bribery fees made it seem like an even more expensive endeavour. But I supposed there was really nothing for it. We got to the hospital, called the PA, and, as promised, had barely any wait -- about 20 minutes to see the doctor, and then another ten before I was fitted for my new cast by the corrupt PA, the so-called "CastMaster." Inspired by Elissa, I opted for a lovely hot pink number, so that I will really stand out while I am lying on the beach in Croatia next week. It's quite a bit bigger than I had been hoping for (why it really needs to go down to my elbow when it's my hand bone that broke is beyond me), but I got no choice in the matter. After all, I couldn't even speak directly to the technician, it was Gabor who had to translate everything back and forth.
cost me. I haven't been able to get a hold of my insurance company, and I'm dreading the probable discovery that they won't cover an emergency room visit in Hungary, and I had yet to see a bill for either of my visits. Tacking on the bribery fees made it seem like an even more expensive endeavour. But I supposed there was really nothing for it. We got to the hospital, called the PA, and, as promised, had barely any wait -- about 20 minutes to see the doctor, and then another ten before I was fitted for my new cast by the corrupt PA, the so-called "CastMaster." Inspired by Elissa, I opted for a lovely hot pink number, so that I will really stand out while I am lying on the beach in Croatia next week. It's quite a bit bigger than I had been hoping for (why it really needs to go down to my elbow when it's my hand bone that broke is beyond me), but I got no choice in the matter. After all, I couldn't even speak directly to the technician, it was Gabor who had to translate everything back and forth. Once the cast had hardened, Gabor told me that it was time to pay the CastMaster. He had warned me before that because I was getting a real cast, and because they were letting me choose my own color, it was going to be fairly expensive. And it was: about 3,300 forint for the cast alone! (Roughly ten euro.) Gabor thought it was essential that we tip the CastMaster, so he told me to give him 4,000 forint instead, making it about a two euro tip. At this point I had yet to pay for any of the other services that had been provided: the doctor's exam, the x-ray, the first cast. But the PA waved us off, without taking my name, my address, my insurance information, or giving me any sort of bill. We dashed out to the car, and Gabor explained that it was very typical -- because I gave the man such a hefty tip, he would turn a blind eye to us walking out without paying. Ahh... Eastern Europe. I shrugged, and we headed to McDonalds for a much deserved McFlurry.
This afternoon, Gabor and I and two of the Swedish guests (Dad and youngest daughter, while Mom and two older girls were on a full day ride) took a road trip in the pristine Volvo out to see Pannonhalma, the largest and oldest monastery in Hungary. It was, in fact, a pretty cool place -- as old as Notre Dame, with similarly distinctive Gothic architecture, and placed prominently on one of Hungary's highest hills (which isn't really saying much, actually, in this land of endless fields and basins) which afforded gorgeous views of the countryside. 
The monastery also has a rich history of having been a disputed place of significance between the Hungarians and the Turks throughout three centuries of mid-milennial conquests and counter conquests. We had a guided English tour of the church, the grounds, the cloister, and the enormous Beauty-and-the-Beast-esque monastic library. The monks there now occupy themselves by making and selling various traditional wines, herbal teas and chocolates, of which I heartily partook.
The monastery also has a rich history of having been a disputed place of significance between the Hungarians and the Turks throughout three centuries of mid-milennial conquests and counter conquests. We had a guided English tour of the church, the grounds, the cloister, and the enormous Beauty-and-the-Beast-esque monastic library. The monks there now occupy themselves by making and selling various traditional wines, herbal teas and chocolates, of which I heartily partook.But my favorite part of this voyage of discovery was Ginny. Ginny is the youngest of three girls in the amazingly picturesque Swedish family I have gotten to know over the last few days. She is ten years old, although perhaps as you can tell from this picture, she is ten going on twenty five. And that makes her the coolest twenty five year old I know...
Unfortunately, though I have my suspicions that she understands English perfectly, she speaks not a word of it, sadly depriving us of her snarky, sarcastic commentary. But nevertheless, she is acutely precocious, in a somewhat startling way for someone so young and so tiny (note the sunglasses, the earrings, the bandana... unfortunately you can't see the fuscia ballet flats here.) Perpetually bored by everything around her, Ginny also has the distinct privilege (and, I might add, psychological handicap) of being obviously the prettiest and, most likely, the smartest of the Swedish sisters. When her dad is not forcing her to play soccer or badminton, or go on boring tours of old churches, she sits here in the computer room chatting with her friends on MSN, sends incessant text messages, and runs out to the driveway when she can get a phone signal so she can rack up huge international fees gossiping and gabbing. I might find this behavior annoying if I didn't find it so incredibly fascinating. The fact that Ginny acts so much like an adult woman, but in that tiny little form, is weirdly scintillanting. And I can't help but look with amazement, and some envy, at the very young life in front of me, one that is dying to get out of the young part and onto the fun part. Ginny has never had her heart broken. She has never, up to this point in her life, failed at anything. She has never lost someone close and dear to her, or felt so hurt by someone else that she questioned her own self worth. These are challenges that all of us, to some degree or other, have been through in our own lives, and that every young girl will face eventually. And while I don't envy her the agony of facing those challenges, I found myself envying her position of opportunity to start catching lemons as they come and squeezing them into great lemonade. I felt myself reminiscing bizarrely about myself at that age -- I say bizarrely not because it's weird to have that reaction, but because it made me think that my own ten-year old behavior was equally outlandish. Wasn't I about ten when Katie and I decided to dress as hippies all the time? When I insisted on calling her from a Delta Skyphone en route to San Diego because it had been more than three hours since we'd spoken? When we used to find ways to secretly call each other at eleven o'clock at night so our calls would be undetected by parents, and talk for hours and hours and hours everyday? When we used to complain about how long the bus ride home was, because it delayed our ability to rush home and dial each other up again? For Christ's sake -- what was there so much to talk sbout? Surely it wasn't all about boys, right, because at some point we'd have had to have exhausted the subject? Ah, but no... even today we have not found the end of that conversation.And for Ginny I know it's the same. Although she is taking her own road and making up her own steps, it is simultaneously hopeful and bittersweet to see her embarking on a wonderful, horrible, beautiful and grotesque journey forward. And to know that she has no idea what's coming, yet is desperate for it to happen. It's just fascinating for me to watch, I think especially from the perspective of being out in the world, by myself, feeling extremely vulnerable to things "happening to me" and trying to appreciate all of those experiences, for better or worse. I hope Ginny will feel the same way. Someday. After she puts down the phone...
Beyond that, I guess I just think that Ginny is really cool. Definitely cooler than I was at that age, and probably cooler than I am now. She may likely turn out to be a snobby brat once she gets to high school, or maybe it's just the Swedishness that makes her seem so cool. But she's a cultural phenomenon all to herself, so I'm enjoying just watching her to see what obnoxiously selfish yet purely adolescent things she does next.
And this evening I went for one last ride, with Gabor and the wife of one of the more serious riders who wanted something a little more calm than the full day gallops. I'm really glad I was able to do some additional riding, even if not as intensely as I had originally hoped, while here at the Castle. This has been a week full of ups and downs (quite literally, actually), and a lot of fun times getting to know the Hungarians, Germans and Swedes who are all here to share a common interest and eat amazing food. Hungary has been a very relaxing, very educational, and very meaningful part of my trip. I am surprisingly happy with every unpredictable turn of events in the last two weeks, and every moment that has made me smile remembering this, my most favorite painting in the Louvre:
Sic Volvere Parcas.
