The Great Parental Visit
They spent last weekend at the Olympics. I haven't heard much, as they've most certainly been having too much fun to become an ex-pat addicted to the connections of the internet. From what I hear, though, my dad is wandering around meeting random strangers. Harpswell and Kat wouldn't be surprised, as I spent the trip to Greece the same way.
Watching the Olympics here has been good, a nice respite from MTV, even if winter sports do get more play time in Europe anyways. Eurosport has spectacular coverage, but it's dubbed into Hungarian. I have to put my head real close to the speaker and try to catch the English in the background. They have none of the human-interest stories and aren't into the eye-catching fact-explaining graphics that I'm used to back home, I think they have a saying "Let the sport be the star."
Tomorrow my parents arrive in Budapest. Eva and I will meet them at the airport. After two days of exploring Budapest, we'll head upstream to Szentendre. I haven't been that direction yet, but the books say it's nice. And then later Monday, the hottest destination on everyone's list: Heves!
The all-purpose "Kinderhaus" across the iced-over road from me is apparently the town's hotel in addition to after-school program, ski-storage building, blood-donation-center and weekend-disco-palace. Agi's arranged for them to spend two nights there. They'll tour Eger for a day, Etelka and I will take them wine-tasting at the Kohari Vinyard, and then we'll cap off the whirlwind tour with a day at school on Wednesday. The highlight will no doubt be lunch in the canteen.
8A has been hard at work in anticipation of their arrival. This week and last they've created the American-tourist version of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" I hope I'm not giving anything away, but the first clue, 5,000 forints, is:
Who is Jeremy?
a. policeman
b. writer
c. the best English teacher
d. actor
Oh, what adorable little people!
The chief concern, of course, is that the tourist programme works out as planned. Additional concerns, though, include the fact that I have become a social and emotional recluse in the past six months and might struggle with the normalization of a return to having a family.
posted by jeremy @ 5:51 PM
1 comments
1 Comments:
Son,
I’m worried about ya; I think you might be headed for trouble. So, let me offer a couple words of advice here along with a little good old “bull. . .” just to keep your attention.
Now I too have noticed that the Earl of Fond Du’s been just a little derelict in posting his Olympic observations. But then he did note early on that it cost somethin like 600 smackers just to sit in on the openin’ ceremony, so he didn’t go. . .decided instead to sit on the bed in a cheap spaghetti motel there in Turin and watch it on a little back and white TV. Good decision, I think, since Mama was right there to keep any eye on em. No chance of his wanderin’ around and gettin’ lost. However, I think he just mighta got himself locked in the bathroom and hasn’t been able to get out. . . .and that probably explains the lack of Olympic postings.
Don’t worry though Mama’s wearin’ her combat boots, and she’ll eventually kick the door down, if necessary–she’s not about to miss the rendevous with that “sexy” (some people do abuse the language) baby of hers up there in Hungary.
Dang, Sexy, don’t you go worrin’ about gettin’ acclimated to the family thing. One good swift kick in the butt from Mama will bring it all back in a flash.
Now, back away from that damned TV; there’s just no way puttin’ your ear up to the speaker is going to solve the problem. Besides, if you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up with a stiff neck. That Olympic stuff is all left over junk from the cold war era; it’s part of a commie plot to divert attention away from reality! In fact, it’s all nonsense; it’s not really sport. You take the luge (or whatever they call it). Sport? Not on your life. Hell, you turn off the sound and it’s impossible to tell the difference between the guy that wins the gold and the poor schmuck who finished 48th. Think about it! They’re sliding down an ice shoot on a tiny little sled with only one possible destination–the BOTTOM. Nobody, but nobody is going to take a right turn and end up in Paris or a right and hit Munich. No! No! It wont happen.
And what’s with that event where they glue some kind of a handle on a rock and pitch it as though it were a bowlin’ ball? Come one! And it’s just noting short of cute to see them out there like escapees from the nut factory sweepin’ the nonexistent snow away from the moving rock. What’s with that?
Hot damn, the tricks never end at these fantasy games. . .hell, I was watchin’ one event and this guys skiing along and all of a sudden he stops, and in the fashion of a James Bond movie, he holds his ski pole up like it’s some kind of a gun and fires off a shot at something. I guess he figured there was a grizzly or somethin’ chasin’ after em. I really don’t know, but I sure didn’t see any wild eyed bears around him. Strange stuff! I asked one of my friends, a guy that seems to know just about everything, why a skier might be takin a shot at something and he said, “I’m not sure but he was probably takin’ a shot at a naga.”
“A naga? Whatin the hell’s a naga? “ He said it’s the critter whose skin provides all that naugahyde they put on your better furniture at Wal-Mart stores. Apparently those Italian hills are the home to herds of those damned nagas. Wow! The things you can learn if you really try.
So, relax. Things are going to be alright. Just give Ma Ma a little hug and tell her a little lie or two and you’ll be alright; just don’t tell her that some of your girl friends have taken to callin’ you “sexy.” That’d make her panic for sure, and you do want her to go home don't you?
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