I Eat My Pigeon

It’s April 5th and we’re in Hungary: in Budapest, at an Easter Market, staring down wooden kiosks laden with painted Easter Eggs, bottles of elderflower syrup and strawberry wine; giant cast iron skillets heaped with fat red sausages, rainbow-colored root vegetables, and spicy potatoes.

One kiosk attendant stirs a black cauldron full of porky, savory gulyás. Another rolls out floury potato dough to shape into dödölle.

There are glass tanks of fresh lemonade, teeming with thin slices of lemon, limes, and oranges. Side dish stations overflowing with tangy sauerkraut, plump beans, and sour cream. Grills sizzling with juicy sides of pork. Artisan Hungarian beers. Pots of pork-and-rice-stuffed cabbage. Chicken on the bone!

It is in this wonderland of traditional Hungarian deliciousness that I opt to try the rooster testicle stew.

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Three things:

• Last fall, I got a steady part-time job in Rome that requires a crazy commute. Out of the house at 7 in the morning, back at 8 in the evening. Have lots and lots and lots to tell you about the joys of commuting with the broke-ass Italian public transit system, and more to tell you about Rome, and other stuff to tell you about my new job. But I’ve been ever so much sleepier now. And that’s why I haven’t updated in forever.
• While I was busy adjusting to said commute and saying unfff, tomorrow to my wordpress dashboard page, my server got frisky and deleted my website without warning me. I have no idea when. Or why, for that matter. But I discovered this during my trip to Hungary last week, while checking my e-mail, when seized with a sudden urge to see how I Eat My Pigeon looked on my iPad. Like a big fat zero, that’s how.
• Server contacted. Site back. Pigeon is back, too – home to roost.

Now.

I’ve had a fierce aversion to recapping past events since my earliest diaries. So I’ll just jump into some posts about things I’ve wanted to tell you, if ye don’t mind. Starting with one about balls.

A few months ago, I was interviewed by Blog Expat for their Expat Interviews feature; a lovely time was had by all. Answering the questions made me reflect deeply on my years living abroad – how did I get here (Ryan Air)? What advice would I give other expats (stock up on Jell-O)? But the question I had the toughest time answering was: What is the biggest myth about your adopted country? Now that was a real head-scratcher; a real Sophie’s Choice of a question. In the end, I went with perhaps the largest myth I encounter: Italy is paradise; nothing bad ever happens there; it’s beautiful delicious dreamland; how dare you complain about anything if you live there? Right… if you’re just on vacation and don’t have to deal with bills, work, garbage build-up, and the giant, unreliable pain in the ass that is the Italian public system.

Italy, you KILL me.

But I digress. While I greatly enjoyed getting that off my chest, I soon realized that I was still unfulfilled. Had I really done enough? This ring. This watch. There are more Italian myths I want to bust for you. Here. Take my hand. Take a breath. And prepare to get your cultural preconceptions rocked.

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