Originally posted on Saturday, July 26, 2014
Redemption! I attacked the final bone quiz and achieved a personal best. Damn that juvenile pubis, I knew it wasn’t a clavicle, yet couldn’t get the sympheseal aspect out of my mind. No matter, must always learn! The lecture of the day consisted of Taphonomy, and featured several images from the Body Farm at University of Tennessee. Jon gave a preamble warning for anyone with a sensitive reaction to such images, then a quick reminder that they are in the wrong field if such were the case. Some could scarcely contain their giddiness. At the risk of diving too deeply into the salaciousness of it all, I think the mummified head that had lately been the domicile of a rodent may have been a standout. I preferred a more clinical air to my own behavior, neither grinning nor frowning, merely observing and imbibing data. Following lunch, I began to feel rather cold and clammy, a cold sweat poured forth, and after finishing the last of my caliper measurements, left at the command of my partner. I returned alone to my hostile hostel, drank as much water as I comfortably could, took a brief shower, then collapsed onto the bed.
I woke with a start around 5pm to the sound of gunfire, or at least a reasonable approximation thereof. A crew were hammering on a metal roof across the lot, and so cursing to myself I gave up on any further sleep. Realizing the time, I wondered where the rest had gone, as it did not seem they were in the hostel. I decided to use the opportunity to continue work on my bibliography. Gathering up my notebook and laptop, I exited my room. The common room was a completely different space; crisp white tablecloths, individual place settings, it went from the surley Transylvanian hostel it was into an exclusive locale. Whoever these guests were, the owners of the hostel were preparing to embrace them as royalty. I retreated to the porch to work, still requiring an internet connection to access EBSCOhost and Eastern Washington University Library Ex Libris database. The afternoon sun was low enough to blast the porch like an oven. Cursing to myself again, I put in headphones and attempted to read a laptop screen in blinding sunlight, no mean feat. Then the new guests arrived in a parade of cars and expensive clothes. The staff were all there to greet, kissing cheeks and even retrieving a fresh propane tank. Even the bar staff came out, crowding around me with their children running circles around the table at which I was attempting to labor. At first I smiled, but quickly it was far too distracting and I knew I would have to leave. Growing impatient and frustrated with the entire situation, I used the last bit of wifi to post a complaint to facebook, and was quickly met with replies from others who had abandoned work at the hostel for Alexandra, a cafe not too far away.
When I arrived, these wonderful people had a fresh hot capuccino and a spot at their table waiting for me. We chatted, then labored in silence for a time. Evening plans were made, suggestions for destinations brought up but it was decided to dine at Pizza 21, a tiny italian style eatery halfway back to the hostel. There we attempted more work until food came, and after that all attempts at work were abandoned. We stopped by the market where some wine was purchased, and we returned to the hostel, where other groups had gathered. Several people had imbibed perhaps too deeply, some others perhaps not. I sat mostly to myself sipping at the cheap merlot, while others laughed and talked, louder and louder. After a time I joined with Jill and Garrett who were watching a zombie film on a small tablet screen, unable to hear any dialogue but all of us knowing the script line by line. A 10pm noise curfew was in effect, but despite this the dull roar grew cacaphonous around me, and soon the irate night security appeared. He spoke, and without understanding his words we understood his meaning, to keep it down. The pause in volume was short lived, the wine had gotten into several people too deeply, and within moments the cacaphony had returned. Perhaps frustration over the banishment in favor of new guests. Perhaps frustration at the night watchman who harrangued the young people nightly yet said nothing to drunken passersby that used the hostels toilet, smoked indoors, urinated on the floor, slipped in the urine, and struck his head on the toilet seat leaving blood that would not be cleaned up for days. Either way, the watchman returned, and motioned for everyone to leave. A bridge too far, it would seem. He turned out the light and left when it became apparent that none were abandoning the space at his command. Some then returned to their rooms, but someone turned the light back on, although the remaining individuals this time stayed relatively quiet. I still sat at the other table, watching the film, nursing my third glass of wine. Ultimately, the manager was called and he appeared, irately told the remaining there to get out of the common space, and turned off the light. The remaining folks all piled into a single bedroom and finished the surly wine until a few of the loudest had to be carried back to their rooms.
A formal complaint from the hostel was filed the next morning. Deservedly so, I’m sure but I cannot help but feel it wasn’t simply the decibel level. Throughout this city of Odorheiu, there is a clear line of distinction. There are the Hungarians; the Szeklars, the primary population here, and then everyone else. Cell phones strapped to their heads, elaborate fashion hairstyles, western t-shirts with Rihanna plastered accross it, or english words in near nonsensical arrangements. Beside them are the Romani, the second class. They walk through the city like shell shocked survivors of some third world violence, their clothes threadbare, their belongings carried in broken plastic tubs. I cannot pretend to understand every aspect of this region, but here the idea that some people are better than others by nature of their heritage is not only alive and well, it is institutionalized. I recalled a thought I had as I walked to Alexandra and passed a mother and child who stepped out of my path (something the primary population has yet to do). Here, some people are thought of as better than others, look how we are ejected from the hostel common room, yet is our money not as good as theirs? Did we not also pay for this space? And then it struck me, that is exactly how Americans are divided up. It’s not the quality of our personage, nor the quality of our money. We eschew all of that in favor of just quantity of money, and yet would deign to look down on others as though we have achieved some great progress. I miss my family.