Deadly Fulfillment

There has been an article sitting on the desktop of my computer for a couple of weeks now. It has
been patiently waiting for me to give is some attention by referring to it in a blog post. The reason it has taken so long is because university chores have taken precedent. Yes, ‘chores’ is the correct word, not a single word that has less tedium intonation could fit the bill.

The article that I have been procrastinating over is called “Plan Your Digital Afterlife with Inactive Account Manager”. The irony of this is that a few years ago, I created a business called “Good-bye Friends”, but it never took off. What set this in motion was when friend of mine had passed away, but I had not heard about it for weeks later. By chance, one of his nephews was savvy enough to send out notices to all of those individuals in his e-mail contacts. If it had not been for this nephew, I would never have known why communication suddenly stopped.
 
I had another friend in Tennessee who did not have a home computer and only read her e-mails sporadically during her teaching day. She and I regularly sent small presents to each other over a number of years. When I wrote my first book, I sent her a copy with an invitation to visit. It was strange that I have never heard from her again. I would have written to the school where she teaches/taught, but she had changed schools and districts the year before.
 
My idea for “Good-bye Friends” was to create a database for clients who had lists of people to be notified upon death. Two or more trusted people would be the messenger for alerting me that it was time to act. That is the idea in brief. Shortly after getting this little venture up and running, I found an article on the Internet that listed and reviewed 9 similar services. Apparently, my idea was not all that unique.
 
Now Google is getting in the act with their own slimmed down version. I guess it is true that death is a powerful business.

Related articles

• Plan your social media afterlife with Google's creepy new feature
• The Digital Afterlife - Managing Your Final Affairs
• How to tell Google what to do with your account in the afterlife

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George Lang RIP

Anyone into food problably knew something about Gundel's restaurant here in Budapest. It was and is probably the most expensive restaurant in the city. If you have not heard yet, the renovator of Gundel's and the more charming less expensive Owls Nest, George Lang has died in New York. Sorry to break it to you so abruptly, but yet, we all have an expiration date somewhere. There is a lovely tribute to the man in Restaurant Insider if you care to read it, click here. 


According to the reprint in Chew.hu, "While best known as the proprietor of the Café des Artistes in Manhattan, he later made headlines for bringing back to life (with the backing of cosmetics heir Ronald Lauder) Budapest's venerable Gundel, which had fallen on very hard times during the communist era. I wasn't initially going to write any tribute-like post in honor of Lang, because, at least in his later years, he didn't seem to be a force for culinary good. He not only let Café des Artistes go bust (it has since reopened as "Leopard at des Artistes"), but he also presided over/agree to the sale of Gundel to the Danubius hotel group, which from day one seemed intent on returning the place to its pre-1990 squalor. One could even say that both places, as well as his career as a whole, were always slightly more about PR than food. And those Gundel-branded wines... well, let's not even go there."


I could not have said it better, so I had to quote it. When I was writing my books, when I had opportunities to speak with chefs, a common theme of Budapest restaurant life was the demise of Gundels. It only survives on reputation from glorious days of the past and current day patrons who effusively pour on accolades to hide their shameful waste of money.

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Timing is Everything

Writing for me is a healing tool, so with that in mind, I am sharing this personal event. Yesterday, my father died. We were in transit from Tokyo, Japan back to Budapest. If he had lived until January 22nd, he would have been 83 years old, but that was not a milestone he felt a need to reach. When he turned 80, he shared with me how surprised he was by the fact that he made it that long. My mother had died years before.

Each time we traveled, I had this sinking feeling that this time would be the time that my brother tried reaching me in vain. Today was that day. Getting home at midnight last night, I was too overstimulated to sleep, so woke at 4am. I had to be at school at 9am and was there most of the day. After feeling like a success by making it home with my eyes open, I succumbed to a rest. Still it took me quite some time to doze off and when I did, I thought I heard the phone in my hazy state. Thinking they would call back, I let it go. Then my mobile started ringing, but I could not make sense of the sound through the groggy web of thought. 

When I finally conceded that there really is no rest for the wicked, the e-mail was the first thing I checked. Just spotting the Facebook message from my brother was enough to put me on high alert. We are not casual communicators. Just as I was trying to call him, he tried successfully to reach me. 

Dad died in his sleep yesterday morning. Though a stroke had paralyzed his one leg in a permanently contracted position, he was still in great spirits. According to my brother he was loved by all of the staff. Knowing my father, it is not difficult to believe. In fact, only the contrary would be unbelievable. Everyone knew him as "Good Guy Jack". 

I tried calling him before we left. His room in the nursing home didn't have a phone. I called the nursing station repeatedly asking if they could get him to the phone, but each time they claimed they were too short handed or he was complaining about not feeling well. I knew if he knew I was calling, he would have made it to the phone. We never did get to say our good-byes the way they should have been. 

He was in New Jersey and so is my brother. Dad will spend his eternity there next to my mother. My brother said, "I am not sure I know what to feel." I am kind of the same way at the moment. There was the expectation every day, but now that it is here, I am not certain how to feel. But writing about it is healing at least.

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Strange Maybe - Unique No

No one responded via e-mail about my new beyond this world business venture, but there have been a number of questioning people in my every day life. Just let me say, I thought I had hit on something totally unique. A week after the launch, there was an article in one of the technology newsletters I receive. The article is here. I am crushed. When you finally decide the time is ripe, remember there are guardian angels waiting for you here.

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Field Trip

Last Saturday, Ron and I had a field trip for our photography class. We were all to meet at Kerepesi Cemetery; all included the six students and our instructor. The assignment was to capture the same photo twice using different aperature/shutter speed combinations so we could see differences. In order to appreciate this, I have to preface it with I DO NOT DO WINTER.

I could easily have been a bear in a previous life. If I could hibernate all winter, I would choose to do so. Going days indoors without stepping foot outside when the temperatures are below 50 degrees Fahrenheit is nothing to me. Cabin fever is preferable to a chill. I react to snow on the ground like a vampire reacts to a crucifix. From a distant view, it is observable, but the closer it gets, the more the inhuman noises rise from the depths of my soul. I have to admit, the sole motivation for going to a snow covered cemetery on a cold February morning was the thought of how much we had paid for this course. It being only ten lessons, I had already missed one when I had the tooth infection, so frugality won over forcing me outdoors.

Before I go on, for those of you not in the know, Kerepesi is beyond being just a cemetery, moving into the realm of outdoor museum. Anyone interested in history or art will appreciate this expanse of land. Without going into too much detail about the history, which you can read here, let me say that I have included a walking tour of it in my new Frommer's 8th edition. We put it on our list of top things to see and do in Budapest and merits a visit during each of the four seasons. As the seasons change, so does the perspective of this final resting place. We generally visit at least twice a year. History buffs will appreciate this "Find a Grave" link here.

Once I had acclimated to the idea, the weather, and the snow, we had one and a half hours to explore on our own, shoot what appealed to us and then meet back at the front gate. Our instructor found each of us at least twice to look over what we had done and offer suggestions. This proved not to be too difficult a task as only three of us showed. 

This coming Tuesday, we will "present" our best ten pictures for critique.

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Needles and Death

I have been victimized by Vasomotor Rhinitis after my first few years of living in California, though it took years to diagnose, partly due to my aversion to doctors. By the sixth year of suffering, it behooved me to make use of the medical insurance for which I was paying dearly. As with any HMO, you see the the doctor for such a brief moment, heaven help you if you ever had to identify him in a line up, you would be hard pressed to do so. Therefore, I have been prescribed every sinus medication known to modern pharmaceuticals.

After a few years, I noticed a correlation. The almond trees bloomed, I became as stuffed up as a toilet in a college fraternity hazing scheme. Come February, I did not even need visuals; the nose knew. Finally, my primary M.D. was shamed into losing some of his residual profits by succumbing to a referral to an allergist. After the most basic allergy test, it was determined I did not suffer from allergies, but they did not test for flower blossoms, let alone for almond flower. That would have required prior approval from the insurance company and no one aside from me thought it was necessary.

With yet a new prescription in hand, I was sent off, screaming that I was leaving the country and could not get it refilled once it was gone. As the allergist strolled off into the sunset of his hallway, he shouted back without turning his head "Use any over the counter med you can find."

Do you know that Sudafed, one of the only meds that works for me is now controlled? In Australia, I had to convince a pharmacist why I needed it. Here I need a Rx from the doctor. Do I look like I need money by making illegal drugs with it? Isn't my lack of a voice enough to convince you?

Plan B: Go to an Acupuncturist. I had been to one in CA for a hiatal hernia and it worked before I opted for the surgery the medical doctor offered instead. Through my massage therapist, I found a Chinese doctor who makes a habit of needling people. Yesterday, was my second appointment.

The day was lovely and rather than take the tram to the metro for two stops, I decided to walk along the narrow sidewalk along the tracks. From one tram stop to the other was a reasonably short distance so I continued onward. As I was walking, I noticed a number of police to the right of the sidewalk up ahead. There was a man with a camera snapping pictures like some tourist, but there was nothing of eye appeal apparent. As I edged closer, the word 'police' was visible on the photographers T-shirt. Then I looked down at the object of his attention. There was a corpse there. After sixteen years as a medical social worker, who spent much of it in the trauma unit, scenes like do not affect me. It was obvious that it was a dead person as they draped the body with a black plastic bag, with the feet sticking out. Newish, clean white sneakers, white gym type socks pulled up to mid-calf with those long shorts everyone wears now. When I was a kid, we called them 'clam diggers'. Anyway, the impression was that this was a male, most likely not a homeless person or if so, one who had access to a laundry. The rest is a mystery for now.

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Voices From the Past

About a year ago, I received an e-mail out of the blue from an old roommate from Modesto, CA. The strange part about it was that we had lost touch years before while I was still living there. He was gay and Mormon; for him it was a crippling situation that he could not resolve. When he was in full Mormon swing, all of his gay or gay friendly friends were suddenly purged from his life. When being on the inside of Mormonism looking out became overwhelming, he would return to each of begging to forgive him for his actions. For the most part, we were forgiving, pointing him in the direction of 'Affirmation' the gay Mormon group, but he did not find solace there either. After this rubber band back and forth, it finally snapped. We did not hear from him again. His e-mails since are from an entirely different person. He credits two different therapists in two different states for his renewal. It is a pleasure to communicate with him again. Through him, I had met a lesbian who I had befriended for a number of years. For a number of reasons, mostly pertaining to her mental health, we parted ways. I have to say, she was a fantastic cook and baker. I missed that part of the friendship as well as the socialization. She too resurfaced in an e-mail about six months ago. We maintain a casual writing relationship. Our paths are so very different now, there are few commonalities beyond pleasantries, but that is fine. Then there was the former student who tracked me down not to very long ago. She shared her professional accomplishments based on the college course she took with me. A couple of weeks ago, a nurse I used to work with found me after ten years to say she and her husband would be in Budapest while on a Danube cruise. They want to get together for dinner. Last week, she shared that the husband of another nurse we worked with had been killed in a motoring accident. He was on a bicycle, hit by a motorcycle. Again, I had lost touch with this couple, but not to lack of trying. I sent them notes and cards, but they were both devastated when we left. We were close. They never responded to my overtures via post and at the time, did not have a computer. I have obtained the phone number and will be calling tonight to share my loss. Jim was one of the few non-gay men who allowed me to be completely comfortable around him without having to be anything other than me. Just knowing he is not walking the earth any longer is heartbreaking. I have thought of the two of them so often over the years. They were both special people in my life. Last night, right before going to bed, I happened to check the e-mail. Ron received a Facebook message stating "I found you while looking for Ryan James. You have a travel picture in your profile, which makes sense. If you lived in Modesto, CA then this is the correct person. Otherwise, ignore this message. This is Kim and I would like to get in touch with you guys again." Dare I say this was another nurse I was really close to for a number of years. Like deja vu, one day we were friends, the next she would not pick up the phone or respond to any outreach. To this day, I am uncertain what happened, but her friendship was a great loss. She is a single parent and I watched her daughter grow. I have thought of both of them often over the years wondering what they are doing. I went into Facebook, searched for her and sent her a friend request. She accepted it. Now, I am waiting for an e-mail. I sent her my addresss. It just strikes me as weird how these past contacts are returning to my present after all of these years. The rest of it either speaks to my choice of friends or there is something in my relating to people that I am missing causing them to go undercover for years, finally feeling safe to resurface. Either way, it is gratifying that they do. They all have had a special place in my heart and life that was left empty for a number of years. Now, maybe those holes can be patched up.

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Joys and Concerns of Teaching

I have decided on two research topics that are interrelated, which I need to pursue. Through my five years of teaching here, I have developed a great concern about my students’ health. They seem to get ill at a greater statistical rate than U.S. students. Each semester, I have at least one hospitalized, but many others suffer with major illnesses that seem to manifest just at the time that an essay is due. An allergy to research or writing perhaps, I am not sure.

Strangely, this poor gene pool must be heredity, directly from the grandparents. This leads me to the second piece of research into Hungarian genealogy. It seems that many of my students have as many as ten different grandparents. The way I discovered this is, each time a paper is due, a grandparent is being buried, and the student needs to rush back to their hometown for the burial. When you have the same students for 4 semesters or more, you begin to realize that they have run out of the customary four grandparents, exceeded possible step-grandparents, and are now working on borrowed grandparents for their funeral get-out-of-Budapest escapades. Further research into these matters will be something of an avocation, but keeping an Excel database of family tragedies would help also.

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