The trials of getting a Hungarian residence permit

Every year I rub my hands with glee waiting for the opportunity to renew my residence permit again, to relive that delightful exercise in bureaucratic pointlessness. Let me elucidate:

A team of 2-3 people spend hours queuing for this or that piece of paper with this or that stamp and signature, only to usually discover that this year, that extra piece of paper is (not) needed. This flurry of activity goes on for 2-3 months leading up to that bright, gleaming day when, armed with my file of important plastic-sleeved documents, I head to Budafoki ut to test my fate.

Except it's not in the building you expected. So you then spend the next 20 minutes or so ding-donging between buildings alongside the marvellous vista of strip mall (with Tesco as its crowning jewel) before finally being accepted by the building you were told was incorrect to begin with. The friendly information person punches the right button for you. Or the wrong one, which you realise after hours of waiting and being told by the person behind the counter that you're in the wrong section.

Clutching the new chit, you wait and wait, and when it's finally your turn, after sweating through your trousers into the torn plastic seats, you lay out all your documents as if it's your last will and testament in front of the gum-chewing bureaucrat chick in a low-cut tank top/short skirt ensemble in white. Her lacquered nails flip through everything - tick, tick, tick, pause. And of course, there's that one more thing that you didn't know about. One thing you were told you didn't need to bring that in fact you do. One more goddamned piece of paper.

Facts:
- I once spent a week's worth of working hours waiting my turn. One of these days was a 7-hour wait. I got quite good at that bouncy-ball game on my old iPod.
- Very few people in those offices (the ones that deal with foreigners?) speak any kind of English.
- My application was once rejected for one incorrect signature that hadn't been an issue the year before. This meant reapplying for all the other documents that were only valid for a month. I had to throw away a plane ticket because of this, since I couldn't leave the country.

And today's fun residence permit application fact:
- I spent 4 hours traversing the city from one office to another because even though I was specifically told to pick up my permit in one place, it was actually in another. And this other, was a bus, metro, tram, bus ride through traffic jams ride away.

But I have it, an innocent miracle of a sticker pasted cleanly in my passport. So adieu bureaucrats, until next year.

Paris, sigh

Why can't I live in Paris?

Walking through the city at dusk past the river, so close by, and the multitude of different faces, past the endless lovely buildings and streets, you can't help but think this.


That is, until you sit through the traffic jams on the peripherique and listen to people's rent/space stories of suffering. I've decided that if I ever live there, it'll have to be nothing less than a 60 square metre loft in the centre, with a view of the Seine.


Daydreaming aside, it was largely a weekend of eating. There was Zen, a bright Japanese place on rue de l'Echelle. We had a huge feast, which came to a reasonable 60 Euros. Everyone in there was Japanese, from the servers to the huge tables of businessmen roaring away. Best were the salmon don, which reminded me of a memorable breakfast of tuna belly on rice at the Tokyo fish market, and the miso ramen, with a thick, smack-worthy broth and homemade noodles.


There were two leisurely home-cooked meals involving many courses of gorgeous food and wine. I spent a drowsy hour after the second lying on the grass baking when the sun came out and shivering when it disappeared. Very weird weather.


Another meal was at Chez Fernand, a bistro on rue Christine near St. Michel which a friend recommended and we'd been to before. Good because:
- The atmosphere is as casual or formal as you want it to be. There were well-dressed patrons, scarves and bouffant hairdos galore, next to T-shirted tables, next to lone diners, next to ruffled couples who'd run to make their reservation (us).
- Friendly, prompt service (and when I clumsily spilled some wine on my plate the waiter swept by, grabbed my plate, wiped off the wine and replaced it before I even had the chance to be embarrassed)
- Divine foie gras
- There was a friendly puppy poking its head through the grill by the window, wagging away at the scent of roast beef.


New Paris discoveries:
- the park near Les Halles, overlooking the church of St. Eustache
- the Pont des Arts, where tons of mostly twenty-somethings sat around bottles of wine with the light of the Institut de France on one end
- the colourful sculptures near the Pompidou
- the park on Isle de la Cité


One day, one day...

A wedding in the castle

With all the rain in the last week, I wondered if the weather would hold up for the big day. Not only did it hold up, it was absolutely scorching.

The church ceremony was barely audible but brief, and we enjoyed the respite from the sun in the dim interior of Matthias. Then it was onto the reception, at the back of the museum at the very end of the castle, in a courtyard I'd never been to before. I felt sorry for all the men in their suits, and for myself hobbling in thin-heeled sandals trying to negotiate the many varieties of cobblestone in the castle district.


Reward came in the form of champagne and delicate nibblies, followed by the throwing of the bouquet (a less delicate mini-wrestling match ensued), a walk around the ramparts with a view of the river and city, and a group photo involving the men twirling and then throwing their jackets in the air.


Dinner was nothing less than impressive, with lots of cutlery and courses. In between, there were games and performances for the couple, including a kind of musical chairs, Who Wants to be a Millionaire, and lots of songs.

Novel for me was the passing out of sugar cubes to be wrapped with notes we'd written on, for them to open every day from now till their 39th anniversary, probably. Someone else distributed envelopes with their address, and the date to be posted, so they would receive something every week till said anniversary. The energy friends of the couple put into organising all this was really something to marvel. In Malaysia, we simply show up, deposit an ang-pow and eat, trying to get the groom as blistered as possible.

Then it was onto the dancing, with all manner of mad partnering. The highlight was definitely this song by Claude Francois called Alexandrie Alexandra. I've heard it so many times now I can just about sing along to the chorus. We didn't quite have as much style as the dancers in the video (and sadly, no one had those boots on either), but all the people who'd sat out their least favourite genre came together for this one.

Scene from Nyugati underpass

This morning, like every morning, I made my way across the Nyugati underpass to catch the tram to work. As usual, I could hear a violinist busking amidst the commuters. The music he was playing, however, was more vibrant than usual, perking me out of my iPod stupor.

I glanced around to pick him out from the crowd, and found him with an old lady perched on a stool in front of him. In a flowy dress, her white hair in a loose bun, she was mere inches away, holding a score in front of her as if she were a music stand. As she turned the page, she was smiling and looking into his face. He wore a serious expression, concentrating on the notes.

Maybe she'd noticed him before and wanted to hear a favourite piece of music live, and so propositioned him. Maybe she used to be a violinist and couldn't play it anymore. Or it was a discarded piece by a grandchild who no longer lived nearby.

In any case, the music and imaginary stories made for a nice change to my morning commute.

Philip Glass and Leonard Cohen in MUPA

As usual, I was running late. Why is it that every time I go to a concert I seem to be booking it in shoes that are hard to run in?

Fortunately, not only did we make it (huffing and puffing as the lights dimmed), but we got better seats than we'd paid for, presumably because they hadn't sold enough tickets in the gods - yay!I was seated next to a man with a prosperous belly in T-shirt and shorts who smelled like he'd spent the whole day smoking in the sun.

I came to this concert because of Philip Glass, having no idea at all that it was Leonard Cohen's poetry and images put to music. The only thing I knew about LC was Hallelujah (it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift - always liked those lyrics). I found out through this concert that his other words are wry, pithy and heavy-handed by turns, that he likes drawing his face and guitars, and that his voice is deep and gravelly.

There was a small ensemble of musicians, and 4 singers belting it in near-showtune style harmonies. The words were always sung with gravity, even when they were saying "Do not try to pet the ant, you'll destroy it with your awkward affection". I couldn't help laughing though it didn't seem appropriate since nobody else was. Glass tinkered on his keyboard on the stage in front of some fantastic instrumentalists, all of whom took turns on solos and kept up with those endless arpeggios and triplets. Sometimes the singers sat, or walked off stage in deliberate exits. The bass baritone was regal. The mezzo reminded me of Shockheaded Peter.

Other snippets of words:

daffodil machete

I circle round your privacy for a lonesome mile

your thighs a flock of sheep

Three bows (the soprano seemed quite touched by the display of admiration from the crowd, not realising that this is the Hungarian way) and we were off to an evening of me saying "Oh heck, why the hell not, another small beer..."