Random Summer Stuff
I have always been averse to taking out a mortgage for a house, which helps explain why I didn't own a home until I moved to Hungary a decade ago. For me, a mortgage translates into a house owning you rather than you owning the house. A big incentive for my move to Hungary centered on the possibility of purchasing a mortgage-free house and becoming a real homeowner, so to speak.
I became one nine years ago after I bought an old house in a small village near Sopron, but the property required many renovations. I have been doggedly renovating ever since and am happy to report that I am nearing the end of that journey. Although my house is paid for, I have realized that it still ended up owning me to some degree.
Fixing up an old house is not for the faint of heart. Although it has been a labor of love these past nine years, I am eagerly looking forward to ditching the labor part and relishing the love.
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I have only watched three sunsets this summer. Unacceptable!
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My family recently adopted a stray cat—a young, rake-thin male with slate gray fur. He began hanging around the house a few weeks ago to garner the romantic attention of my neutered female cat, who treated him with the same sort of disdain I used to receive from girls I had hopeless crushes on in high school.
I felt sorry for the dejected, emaciated little Romeo and began to feed him. My wife started calling him Maci (pronounced Mah-tsee), the Hungarian equivalent of "teddy" from teddy bear. He is now more-or-less family, with the caveat that he will remain an outdoor family member because my female cat—a spoiled, anti-social grump-puss who gives off the air of a stale, middle-aged Victorian-era spinster— adamantly refuses to entertain any notions of sharing the house with the likes of a drifter like Maci.
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Long-term investments—spans of five years or longer—tend to work out for me, but my track record as a speculator is abysmal. I suppose that helps explain why I disliked my only trip to Las Vegas so much.
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I was waiting in line at the supermarket checkout the other day, and an old man standing behind me began grumbling about the weather.
“It was 36 degrees Celsius yesterday. Today it’s only 21.”
“Yes,” I said in agreement. “It is 21 degrees today.”
“It’s not normal,” he continued.
“What? It being 21 degrees?”
“No. The temperature change. 36 to 21? That’s . . .that’s . . .” He paused for a moment to do the math in his head. “That’s a 15-degree difference!”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“That’s not normal. It didn’t happen in the past.”
I have lived in Hungary for about ten years. Fifteen-degree differences in temperature from one day to the next are quite common. I have experienced dozens of temperature changes like that since moving here. And I experienced dozens more in my childhood whenever I visited my extended family. I wanted to point this out to the old timer, but I thought better of it.
“It’s climate change,” the old man added. “It was over 40 degrees in Paris last week. The heatwave ended up killing about a thousand senior citizens. It’s not normal. That didn’t happen a century ago.”
“Did Paris even have a thousand senior citizens a century ago?” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing. I suppose somebody should do something about it. The climate change, I mean.”
“Well, they better,” the old man said bitterly. “Otherwise, we’ll all be dead.”
I left the store thinking that there was no point in engaging with media directly these days. Talk to a fellow citizen for five minutes and you’ll get all the media you need.
I became one nine years ago after I bought an old house in a small village near Sopron, but the property required many renovations. I have been doggedly renovating ever since and am happy to report that I am nearing the end of that journey. Although my house is paid for, I have realized that it still ended up owning me to some degree.
Fixing up an old house is not for the faint of heart. Although it has been a labor of love these past nine years, I am eagerly looking forward to ditching the labor part and relishing the love.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
I have only watched three sunsets this summer. Unacceptable!
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
My family recently adopted a stray cat—a young, rake-thin male with slate gray fur. He began hanging around the house a few weeks ago to garner the romantic attention of my neutered female cat, who treated him with the same sort of disdain I used to receive from girls I had hopeless crushes on in high school.
I felt sorry for the dejected, emaciated little Romeo and began to feed him. My wife started calling him Maci (pronounced Mah-tsee), the Hungarian equivalent of "teddy" from teddy bear. He is now more-or-less family, with the caveat that he will remain an outdoor family member because my female cat—a spoiled, anti-social grump-puss who gives off the air of a stale, middle-aged Victorian-era spinster— adamantly refuses to entertain any notions of sharing the house with the likes of a drifter like Maci.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Long-term investments—spans of five years or longer—tend to work out for me, but my track record as a speculator is abysmal. I suppose that helps explain why I disliked my only trip to Las Vegas so much.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
I was waiting in line at the supermarket checkout the other day, and an old man standing behind me began grumbling about the weather.
“It was 36 degrees Celsius yesterday. Today it’s only 21.”
“Yes,” I said in agreement. “It is 21 degrees today.”
“It’s not normal,” he continued.
“What? It being 21 degrees?”
“No. The temperature change. 36 to 21? That’s . . .that’s . . .” He paused for a moment to do the math in his head. “That’s a 15-degree difference!”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“That’s not normal. It didn’t happen in the past.”
I have lived in Hungary for about ten years. Fifteen-degree differences in temperature from one day to the next are quite common. I have experienced dozens of temperature changes like that since moving here. And I experienced dozens more in my childhood whenever I visited my extended family. I wanted to point this out to the old timer, but I thought better of it.
“It’s climate change,” the old man added. “It was over 40 degrees in Paris last week. The heatwave ended up killing about a thousand senior citizens. It’s not normal. That didn’t happen a century ago.”
“Did Paris even have a thousand senior citizens a century ago?” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing. I suppose somebody should do something about it. The climate change, I mean.”
“Well, they better,” the old man said bitterly. “Otherwise, we’ll all be dead.”
I left the store thinking that there was no point in engaging with media directly these days. Talk to a fellow citizen for five minutes and you’ll get all the media you need.
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