DUCKTALES RETROSPECTIVE, Episode 40: "Ducks of the West"... Plus... well, something considerably MORE fascinating!

I must admit, I wasn't particularly looking forward to this return to retrospection -- not because I've lost my enthusiasm for the whole retrospective enterprise, but because "Ducks of the West" surely must rank as one of the five worst DuckTales episodes.  If possible, I like it even less now than I did back in the day, because very rarely does the series indulge in misbegotten mischaracterization to the extent that it does here.  When you find yourself wishing that writer Richard Merwin had scripted this DT "adventure" MORE like a conventional and modestly competent Scooby-Doo episode, you know that dire doings are a-web.

Thankfully, while Internet-surfing earlier this week, I ran across an utterly fascinating piece of overseas DuckTales trivia.  (Actually, "trivia" may not be appropriate in context here, as you'll see.)  What made it doubly fascinating and meaningful for me was the country involved.  The fact that I'm putting the discussion here, rather than in the "DuckBlurbs" section at the end of the post, reflects (1) my own indirect personal "connection" to the matter and (2) my intense desire to avoid talking about phony ghosts, missing oil, and contrived cowboy contests for as long as I possibly can.

We Americans have come to call the generation born in the last two decades or so of the 20th century the "Millennial Generation."  (The designation used to be "Generation Y," following up on "Generation X," but evidently it was felt that we'd started too close to the end of the alphabet for comfort.)  In Hungary, by contrast, the same generational cohort is popularly known as Kacsamesek generacio, or "the DuckTales generation," because many young Hungarian adults associate the show with the first significant post-Communist political event in their lifetimes.

DuckTales began running on Hungarian state television channel MTV1 in the early 1990s.  On Sunday, December 12, 1993, a broadcast of the show was interrupted for an announcement of the death of Jozsef Antall, Hungary's first democratically elected prime minister after the fall of Communism.  Someone preserved a VHS tape of the original broadcast and has put it up on YouTube.  The coincidence would be intriguing enough... but guess what notorious scene from the series was so abruptly interrupted?

It seems that a LOT of kids were left wanting to know what happened to Scrooge's "ice cream" and what became of that "sea monster"!  In fact, there's apparently a Facebook page entitled Akik nézték a vasárnapi Disney-t, amikor meghalt Antall József (Those who were watching Disney Sunday when Jozsef Antall died) with over 10,000 followers.  And, yes, I have confirmed all of this -- here, for example.  (Also here, but watch out, reading Hungarian is known to cause the eyes to bleed.)

UPDATE (6/23/13):  In preparing the next retrospective, "Sphinx for the Memories," I went back to Pete Fernbaugh's piece on that episode and noticed that he mentioned the "DuckTales generation" business in passing.  For whatever reason, I didn't pick up on it then. 

I think you can understand why I find this so amazing: the combination of series, episode, and country simply boggles my mind.  I don't doubt that, had a more mundane scene from a more mundane episode been cut off in this case, the memories would have not been nearly as indelible.  And if a scene from "Ducks of the West" had been cut off... well, the interruption might have come as something of a relief.  (Nice segue, eh?)

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GeoX pretty much nails just about EVERY SINGLE problem with "Ducks of the West" in a single paragraph of his review:

I'm not gonna lie to you: this episode caused me physical pain with its stupidity. Scrooge will go broke if the oil doesn't start up again? In spite of the fact that, as the series (let alone the comics) has made abundantly clear, he has all sorts of other business concerns? He's willing to gamble away his entire fortune* without even knowing the details of what the contest will involve? And then, having done this (and not having bothered to question the incredibly obvious tricks that JR [Mooing] used to cheat), he has barely any noticeable reaction--instead he's more concerned with finding the missing oil, which wouldn't be his anymore anyway? And then, after finding said oil, JR conveniently morphs into a good guy and just gives back his whole fortune, no further action needed? Seriously, was this episode written by people with severe head injuries?

*Reminding me of his insane decision to give his entire fortune in exchange for a lentil concern in that batty-ass Romano Scarpa story "The Lentils from Babylon."

I swear, Geo must have been reading my mind when he wrote this.  The real shame of it all is that, if Merwin had really been bound and determined to do a Scooby-Doo plot with the DT characters in a Western setting, then Carl Barks had already teed up the ball perfectly for him.  This situation simply screamed for an adaptation of Barks' "Mystery of the Ghost Town Railroad" (UNCLE $CROOGE #56, March 1965).  In addition to employing the same "phony ghost" and "ghost town" conventions, "Railroad" added a few bits of lore from Scrooge's past and two good one-shot female characters in the forms of Scrooge's old acquaintance Hashknife Kate and her gun-toting granddaughter "Ducky Bird."  (I'm sure that Joan Gerber and Tress MacNeille could have dished up fitting voices for these characters.)  J.R. Mooing, complete with dead-on Frank Welker voice parody of Larry Hagman, could have served as a more effective "red herring" as one of the other characters holding railroad stock certificates (and perhaps conniving on the side to buy out some of the other old investors).  Launchpad, of course, would have to be involved, if only for his participation in the climactic train chase.  Even the "phony ghost" business in "Railroad" is handled far more expertly than in the TV episode, where the "ghost of Jesse Jones" just happens to have exactly the same voice as one of the few incidental characters that had been introduced into the narrative.  The only reasonable objection that I can see to using the plot of "Railroad" here is that the rationale underlying Barks' plot -- the desire to snaffle up the old railroad shares and "make a stock market killing" by selling out to the missile-base people -- might have been regarded as overly dry and not sufficiently "interesting" to kids.  Funny, that didn't seem to bother Barks any... and if "Railroad" had been included in the Celestial Arts collection, or if someone (Jymn Magon?) had been a little more persuasive about the quality of the Barks story, then I can easily imagine the DT production crew reaching the same conclusion.

"You have chosen... UNWISELY."

There are some mildly funny bits in the pre-Texas stages of "West."  Scrooge's encounter with the stuttering gas-station attendant (surprisingly, this is a dated reference today, at least to those of us who don't frequently traverse the New Jersey Turnpike) is good for a laugh, simply because Scrooge literally walks down the side of his limo to go beak-to-snout with the guy.  When McDuck business is at stake, it seems, Scrooge is capable of at least partially defying gravity.

Then, of course, after Scrooge discovers that Launchpad can't fly him to Texas due to the lack of McDuck fuel, Scrooge has to submit to the massive indignity of flying Air Glomgold.  I'm glad that Merwin resisted the temptation to actually give Glomgold himself a walk-on here, opting instead for the picture of Flinty on the sign.  I am puzzled, however, at the... um, irrelevance... of LP's brief appearance.  How many of us, when we first saw Launchpad appear in this scene way back when, figured that LP would have to play some sort of role in the adventure to follow, gasless plane or no?  (After all, LP has at least a couple of planes available back at the "Launchpad Unlimited" hangar.)  It hardly would seem worth the trouble to bring LP on stage -- and with a speaking part, yet -- for such a comparatively trivial moment.  Perhaps Terry McGovern had more voice responsibilities here than I had originally thought.  (For example, he, rather than Alan Oppenheimer, might have voiced our rope-belted, grease-jockeying friend above.)

In the hurry to get to the Scooby-Doo/cockeyed contest stuff, the Ducks' sojourn at Tex Dogie's Lucky Duck dude ranch gets virtually no screen time whatsoever.  This may not seem like a major problem, but it makes for an awkward moment at the climax of the ep, when HD&L snaffle the as-yet-unmasked "ghost of Jesse Jones" using the roping skills they "learned at the ranch."  Uh, when, exactly?  Right after Tex Dogie reveals the existence of the ghost town, the boys (no surprise) are off on their trusty mount Gluefoot to investigate.  When they finally return, Scrooge has just lost his fortune to J.R., and the Ducks immediately go back to the ghost town to seek out the oil that the Nephews had discovered.  Since I can't imagine that Scrooge wasted any time in plunging into his initial investigation of the oil famine with "the original" Wildcat, the Nephews had, what, maybe a couple of hours to absorb the delights of Dogie's spread?  I know that they're quick-witted and have the Junior Woodchucks' Guidebook as a resource, but BOY, is that a quick turn-around time.

I can't imagine how unendurable this episode would be had Merwin taken inspiration from the "Texarock" episodes of The Flintstones and thrown a few "Ever'thang's bigger 'n better in Texas" tropes into the mix.  As it is, for all the sneering and attitude, J.R. Mooing comes across as almost low-key in terms of visual bling, with the satellite dish and hot tub in his limo (which also boasts spurs on the tailfins) being the only real signs of excess.  His mansion, seen in medium shot several times, is positively modest -- heck, he didn't even pay to have the flag on top of it animated so that it would float in the breeze -- and he even drives his own limo!  Of course, the whole point about the "real" J.R. Ewing was not how much money or how many possessions he had, but how he behaved towards others.  In that respect, Welker provides an outstanding, if somewhat diluted, version of the live-action TV inspiration... until things fall completely apart at the end.

The Toon Disney version of the episode cut out a chunk of the initial encounter between HD&L and the "ghost of Jesse Jones."  The music suddenly swells as Jones comes down the stairway and reveals himself at the end of Act One, with the whole "dance while I'm a-shootin' at your feet" sequence being removed.  Act Two begins with Jones complaining "I ain't ready yet!" as the boys vamoose, after which we see Jones shooting at the backs of the fleeing kids.  So... purposely shooting to miss is verboten, but actively trying to shoot someone in the back is not.  Got it.  Compounding the censorial confusion, the later scenes in which Jones barely misses HD&L's heads (including the one in which Louie gets spattered with oil and thinks he's been hit) are preserved.  Those shots came almost as close to the heads of the boys as some of the shots aimed at Kit Cloudkicker, which were cut by TD.  If YOU can spot the consistency here, then I'd appreciate some enlightenment on the subject.

The episode, of course, starts its irrecoverable trip down the "inglorious hole" when Scrooge decides to play cowboy, put on a laughably transparent disguise, and accept J.R.'s challenge to the winner-take-all contest.  OK, now... the Barks Donald Duck of the 1940s might have done this, or something reasonably similar, and I can even imagine the young, full-of-beans Scrooge of Don Rosa's LIFE AND TIMES accepting a challenge to risk SOME of his money on a point of honor at SOME point in his development.  But this, this is... beyond ludicrous.  Merwin doesn't even get Scrooge's ultimate admission of fault right; he has Scrooge realize that "I'm no cowboy" and "I should never had tried to be what I'm not."  Of course, Scrooge has been a cowboy in the past, and many other things besides; at the very least, his experiences in the Klondike should have equipped him with some elementary Western survival skills.  The "proper" reaction here (not that such a thing could possibly exist under the circs) would have been for Scrooge to realize that he's too old and out of practice to be playing cowboy.  In practice, however, this creative decision is simply unsalvageable.

Once Scrooge has been cleaned out, he suddenly turns detective and joins HD&L to track down the missing oil... which, as GeoX noted, is completely irrelevant to his present predicament.  In its own way, this reaction is more irrational than either his passive resignation in "The Money Vanishes" or his over-the-top, Magyar-youth-traumatizing tantrum in "A Whale of a Bad Time."  The ep actually improves a little once Merwin decides to turn it into a pure Scooby-Doo caper, with the "white buffalo" nicely repaying the Nephews' earlier kindness by helping the Ducks break out of the decrepit jail cell (for some reason, this scene has always reminded me of the Brady Bunch two-part episode set in the Grand Canyon) and HD&L taking the wrangling lead in literally bringing the villain to his knees.  Anyone who has heard the ep's dialogue knows who the man behind the mask will be, of course, so let's rejoice that "McDuck Oil is back in business! [sic!!!]" and quickly cut to the non-Chasen's chili...

... and J.R.'s OUT OF NOWHERE switch to the side of the angels, or somewhere near there.  WHAAAAA...?!  This is Barks' signature end-of-story phrase "And things are again as they were" taken to an absurd extreme.  I'm shocked that the story editors actually allowed Merwin to get away with this nonsense.  Forget "Mystery of the Ghost Town Railroad"; Scrooge entering his "cactus wildfire chili" (and given that's he's "no cowboy," where did he learn to make it, I wonder?) against Ma Beagle's glass-cutting "red" in a chili cook-off would have made for a more coherent and entertaining episode than the mess we wound up with here.  Whoosh goes all of the audience good will that Merwin had built up thanks to "Top Duck."  (Either that, or it's the "cactus wildfire chili" backing up on me.)  Sorry, Greg, but "Citizen Khan" is... well, Citizen Kane compared to "Ducks of the West."

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"DuckBlurbs" 

(GeoX) There were a few small things I liked about this episode: Scrooge's affectation of a Texas accent is pretty hilarious, and I enjoyed his foreman, Wildcat's, laconic "yeps" and "nopes." Oh, and the "ghost" buffalo that the kids save is pretty cute. But that's all.  

I'd have to agree, adding on the two funny early bits that I mentioned above.  It strikes me that Frank Welker's J.R. Ewing parody is getting to be almost as dated as Chuck McCann's imitation of Gary Cooper was in 1987.  Perhaps not as badly as the Morton Downey Jr. parody Lawrence Loudmouth in "The Masked Mallard," but there's a difference between a youngster of today knowing of the character of J.R. Ewing and knowing how he sounded and acted.

(Greg)  So we cut back to the nephews checking on their remote control airplanes and they proclaim that they are out of gas. Who in their right mind would sell gas powered remote control airplanes?! Don't these whippersnappers know about BATTERY operated aircraft? And wouldn't gas powered be too dangerous of a fire hazard for children to use?

You can still find gas-powered model airplanes on the market.  Here, for instance.  I gather that you would have to have considerable experience in handling simpler craft before you were ready to try a gas-powered model, though.

(Greg)  So we logically go into the desert as the nephews are riding west (HA!) on a gray horse as Louie is singing a Texas song so badly that Louie would be shot in the face by Dick Cheney just for being such a bad singer. Yeah; I went for the low blow; but seriously, the singing is crappy. Oh wait; it's Huey which somehow makes it worse. He calls Dewey Deadeye Dewey which at least sounds witty. Louie is Lonestar Louie as they are riding on the range like real cowboys....and doing a decent job of it; bad singing notwithstanding. Louie of course screws up on the Texas accent as we cut to the ghost town. We know this because there is no one in the town and there's nothing but tumbleweed being animated by TMS. We pan over east as the horse rides into town with a lot of wind blowing. The horse is called Gluefoot as it stalls while Huey tries to get it to sell properly. Gluefoot goes all Scooby Doo on us (he even sounds like a crappy Scooby Doo which means Frank Welker is voicing him.)

I think that it would have been clever had Gluefoot been designed in the manner of Tanglefoot or another classic Floyd Gottfredson model horse.  Granted, it wouldn't have come close to salvaging the episode, but it would have provided a nice link to past Disney comic-book and comic-strip stories set in the West.  The semi-realistic equines of "Horse Scents" and the look of the series as a whole probably made this wish impossible to fulfill.

(Greg) The nephews bail stage right and head for the sheriff's office and remember to close the door this time. We know it's the sheriff's office because it has a silver star on top.

A nice bit of visual continuity here: as in Duckburg, stores and other public buildings are "identified" by a visual marker above the door.  For example, the stables in the ghost town have a horse's head posted on them.  Also recall the handcuffs signifying the police station in "Hero for Hire" and the cheese above the door to the Novaygian cheese shop in "Scrooge's Pet."  

Next:  Episode 41, "Sphinx for the Memories." 

Meeting the Million Question Challenge

On Tuesday, I returned home from yet another AP Statistics Reading.  Hard to believe that I've been doing this for nine years and at four different venues.  After previous stops in Lincoln, NE, Louisville, and Daytona Beach, the AP Stats caravan moved to Kansas City last year, but I was unable to attend.  This year was a different story.

I've never written much about my AP experiences on this blog, or anywhere else for that matter, so I've decided to write a little bit regarding what this operation is all about.  The AP Stats exam was first offered in 1997, and 57 good folk and true (true Stats junkies, that is) from high schools, prep schools, and colleges across the land graded about 8000 test booklets that first year.  To give you an idea of how the enterprise has grown, there were many more first-time AP Readers ("Acorns," as we call them, based on the College Board logo) in K.C. this June than there were readers at that first go-round.  For the first time, we were faced with the Million Question Challenge: with 640 Readers and about 170,000 students taking the exam this past May, our task was quite literally to grade over 1,000,000 questions.  No, I didn't have to grade each and every one of the six free-response questions.  A Reader typically is assigned two questions, cycling back to finish grading the first once the second is done.  The Reading day runs from 8 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. with two breaks for... well, a break, and one hour for lunch.

Gone are the days when Readings could be held on college campuses such as the University of Nebraska (actually, we stayed in NU dorms and graded on the neighboring former site of the Nebraska State Fair).   Not even Daytona is big enough to hold us now.  Instead, it's large cities, chain hotels, and large convention centers all the way.  We worked at the Kansas City Convention Center (at right in above picture) along with the Readers for AP Calculus, AP Biology, and AP Government and Politics.  Did I mention that the KCCC was large?  Actually, we Stats folks stayed pretty much to ourselves, even when we joined the huddled masses in the dining hall (aka the Grand Ballroom) at lunchtime.  The food service at past Readings has ranged from delectable (Lincoln) to dubious (Louisville and Daytona), and I'd rate the KC experience somewhere between those two poles.  We definitely got mass-catered food, but it was good mass-catered food, and I made it a point to tell one of the caterers as much on the last day.  The logistics were definitely better than they were in either Louisville or Daytona, with 10 serving lines and plenty of seating space.

At lunchtime, I typically found it the better part of valor to head outside and eat on a patio adjacent to the Grand Ballroom.  Not because I'm claustrophobic, but because I needed the chance to thaw out.  The Reading rooms (actually, open spaces separated by curtain partitions) are COLD, especially late in the day when they crank down the thermostat to help keep us awake (at least, such is my entirely reasonable theory).  I was obliged to wear long pants and my "Kit Cloudkicker Collection" green sweatshirt most of the time.

Cold temps aside, the KCCC was fairly comfortable apart from one somewhat scary moment on Saturday the 15th.  An afternoon thunderstorm blew through town and knocked out the lights.  Luckily, the auxiliary lights quickly came on, so we could continue grading.  The rain got heavy enough that a literal cataract of water could be seen leaking down one of the walls of the hall.  Kansas City is known as a "City of Fountains," but it didn't have to arrange an extra display for my benefit.  No real damage done, thank goodness.

We didn't have many opportunities to see the local sights (and, yes, KC does have sights) so I contented myself with the next best thing: visiting local restaurants.  I was already planning to get breakfast outside the convention center and was lucky enough to hit upon a branch of a local supermarket chain, Cosentino's, that appears to be the KC-area version of the East Coast's Wegmans and the Richmond area's late, lamented Ukrop's.  This self-billed "Unique Food Experience" (not strictly true, but I'm not complaining) offered a wide variety of prepared foods in addition to the standard supermarket items.  The chain was founded by an Italian immigrant, and the wall behind the customer service desk featured a picture of him next to a (gasp!) crucifix.  What would Al Khan of 4Kids make of that, Greg? 

Of course, I simply had to try some of that legendary KC barbecue while in town.  Unfortunately, most of the really legendary places were too far away to be easily accessible without taking a long and expensive cab ride.  I "settled" for the somewhat less famous Jack Stack BBQ, which was within walking distance.  I had been given a tip that this was a good place to go, and the food was good, but eating there wasn't... well, momentous.  To be perfectly honest, Extra Billy's, my favorite BBQ place in the Richmond area, was just as good.  Perhaps I failed to appreciate the piquancy and finish of the sauce, or something.

I had a better dining experience at Grunauer, a German-Austrian place next to Jack Stack in what is called the Freight House District.  I suppose that I was swayed by memories of all that great eating in Vienna and Budapest during our trip to Europe several years ago.  If so, then I should let such memories be my guide more often, for the food was excellent.  I had Hungarian beef goulash mit spaetzle und kraut, and, though the portions didn't seem all that large, they filled me up right quick.  I had a good table at the bar to watch Phil Mickelson let it get away in the final round of the US Open.  And, yes, beer was present, as well.  In fact, I had more beer during this KC sojourn than I've probably had in any such concentrated time period in my life.  Only after Reading hours, naturally...

As long as they'll have me, I intend to continue active participation in the AP Readings.  It's a tiring but fun experience.

Like Father, Like Son, Like Brother, Like Brother

Using a photo from my Dad's journal, Nicky created a neat juxtaposition of pictures of my Uncle Laci, my Dad, and me and my brother Andy. Who says history doesn't repeat itself!

"From Szeged to Innsbruck"

This weekend, Nicky and I visited my Mom in Wilmington and took home a hardback copy of a very special Barat family document -- my Dad's journal describing his escape from Hungary to Austria in 1949. We had had it translated from Hungarian some years ago, but we wanted to put it into some sort of permanent form. This hardback edition includes lots of pictures of my Dad and his family dating back to his childhood and his time in the Jesuit order, plus a foreword and afterword by Mom.

All of the grandkids are getting copies as well. They will never get to meet Dad, but now they'll know his remarkable story.

European Trip Diary, Part 4: From Budapest to Vienna (July 11)

It's time to leave Budapest, and, in truth, we've already "hit" most of the things we really wanted to see in the Hungarian capital. We did miss out on a visit to one of Budapest's famous thermal baths, but the peculiar hotel pool that Nicky and I used yesterday made up for that, in a way. By 8 a.m., following one final circuit 'round the groaning breakfast buffet table, we're on our way to Budapest's Keleti (East) railroad station. There, we take our first-class seats aboard Austrian Railways' "Railjet" and are soon heading for Wien (Vienna) Westbanhof station.

First-class isn't the highest class of train travel available on the "Railjet," but you could have fooled us: we get seat-side snack service (trying some wurst on for size) and have plenty of leg room. It is definitely a strange feeling traveling in such comfort over approximately the same route that my Dad took when he escaped the country in 1949. We don't have to show our passports at the final Hungarian station; indeed, were it not for the electronic map in the train car, we wouldn't have known when we crossed the border. We travel through farmland that becomes noticeably tidier and more organized once we're in Austria. Austria's commitment to alternative sources of energy is also very evident as we zoom by several sizable wind farms, all with turbines pin-wheeling away.

We arrive at our hotel -- the Hilton Vienna Plaza -- just in time to witness the concluding stages of a bike race on the famed Ringstrasse. Granted, these fellows can't be among the best bikers in Europe, since the latter are presently struggling up hill and coasting down dale in the Tour de France. But our bus driver tells us that the competitors have pretty much crossed Austria, and the temperature remains in the 90s, so who are we to flyspeck their game efforts?

(Sorry, but we snapped only the peloton, not the lead group, which I believe consisted of only three or four racers.)

The Plaza tries hard not to seem like a chain hotel -- adding such little touches as a child-sized set of stairs at the front desk to allow its "little guests" to sign in alongside the big'uns -- but Nicky's and my room definitely looks more like what we're used to in America. The water from the tap is clear and ice-cold, no surprise given that Vienna gets its water directly from the Alps. The air conditioning, however, is certainly not up to U.S. standards. (I just saw on the news where over 500 Belgians have died during the recent heat wave; maybe we should have made a health-based argument to the hotel staff to turn up the A/C.)

After a brief rest, we strike out for the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna's (somewhat louder) answer to Budapest's Fine Arts Museum. The KHM is closed on Mondays and we won't be in town on Tuesday due to our planned trip to Salzburg, so this is our one chance to sample one of the world's better museums (though it will only be open for another hour or two). It's boiling hot, so we make use of Vienna's extensive Unterbahn system to get to Museumsquartier -- learning along the way that one must always push the button to open the car doors. (Don't worry, we only went one stop too far and were quickly able to double back.) Unfortunately, we find the KHM to be only slightly less warm than the outside. At least the lighting is more appropriate than it was in the Budapest museum.

Mom and I eyeball Rembrandt's self-portraits

Fortified by a brief drink-and-snack break at the KHM's ornate public dining area, we manage to make it through the museum's immense and world-famous collection of "Dutch Masters" before the heat and the close atmosphere take most of the "virtue" out of us and compel a retreat. Most of Pieter Bruegel the Elder's most famous canvases are here, including three of his "Seasons" cycle. Paul Johnson's fine art history text had given me a heads-up that Bruegel was well represented here, and I am glad to see the artist's remarkably detailed and intricate originals. Think Where's Waldo?, only quainter and with greater cultural import. Also on hand are some of Rembrandt's best-known self-portraits, several massive religious works by Rubens (which are so huge that I defy The Beagle Boys, nay, even Negaduck, to steal them!), and various portraits by Van Dyck. No sooner have we started on the Spanish, Italian, and French section, however, when the three of us run out of steam all at once. Before leaving, I buy a couple of Bruegel prints at the gift shop, including the celebrated Hunters in the Snow.

Curling, 16th-century style! (Detail from "Hunters in the Snow")

We have Frommer's guide to thank for our choice of dinner destination -- but the trick is to get there before we wilt completely. On the map, "Alt-Wiener Beisl zu den 2 Lieserln" is only a short walk away from Museumsquartier, but we encounter a few anxious moments before finally tracking it down. The place is described by Frommer's as a "well-kept secret" that serves some of the biggest and best Schnitzel in town. They aren't kidding about that "biggest" part. We all order the "small" Schnitzel-and-potato-salad plate, and the slabs of breaded pork with which we are gifted are roughly the size of Frisbees. When I ask how big the "large" portion is, the friendly manager (who also seems to be the only waiter on duty) points to his belly and makes a large circle. We also get an excellent bread basket that includes a soft pretzel. To wash all this down, some potent potables are needed. Mom and I each sink a half-liter of Ottakringer beer, and I must admit that beer has rarely tasted so good to me in my life. We decide to "cab it" back to the hotel, and the manager caps off a near-perfect gastronomic experience by calling the cab for us.

If the streets of normally night-life-oriented Vienna seem a bit quiet, there's a good reason -- the World Cup final between Spain and the Netherlands is tonight. The rest of our evening is spent switching between Austrian and German TV and wincing at Holland's manifestly crude attempts to keep the technically superior Spaniards from playing their game. The result is a steady stream of yellow cards and very few chances (though Spain clearly takes the initiative in the second half). After a Dutch player is sent off in extra time, the question becomes, Can Holland somehow get the thing to penalty kicks? They fall four minutes shy as Spain finally scores the decisive goal to win its first World Cup. The better team clearly won, though I feel badly for the Dutch fans watching their team lose in the final for the third time in three tries. Winning the Cup has got to mean more to a small country like that than to a large one.

Up next: We finally join Monogram in motion; the crib of the Hapsburgs; entirely too much kitchenware; in search of the Sachertorte; plus, a major-league Duck-comics sighting!

European Trip Diary, Part 3: Szentendre and a Meeting with Clan Baracskai (July 10)

Happy Birthday, Mom! After another hearty breakfast, we catch the M2 metro for Batthyany ter station, where we switch over to the HEV (suburban railway) line. I should note at this point that we purchased a special card at the start of our trip that allows us unlimited travel on the Metro, as well as discounts at various museums and restaurants (such as yesterday's Fine Arts Museum and Bagolyvar), for a period of 48 hours. The 15-mile trip to Szentendre, however, necessitates shelling out an extra couple of bucks apiece. Our well-aged but (save for the by-now-expected lack of good ventilation) comfortable train rattles past a series of Communist-era "prison block" flats and residential neighborhoods in the northern suburbs of Budapest. Graffiti is everywhere, but, in a stark contrast with Amtrak's Northeast Corridor, there's not much trash or debris next to the tracks. Literally every house we see has its perimeter marked out by a fence of some sort. Could this be a silent witness to the desire for private property, so long suppressed?

Szentendre is "picturesque" in the grand tradition, with cobblestone streets, quiet cafe-style restaurants, several eye-catching churches, a town pump gushing forth ice-cold water, and dozens and dozens of shops selling jewelry, clothing, crafts, artwork, foodstuffs (including the inevitable paprika), and so forth. Nicky and I try to handle our money with care, avoiding the joints that sell "I Love Hungary" magnets and the like. In truth, we see very little obviously "Made-in-the-Far-East" merchandise, unless you count the Hello Kitty boutique huddled, as if in embarrassment, on the edge of town. Most of the artistic enterprises seem quite authentic. From one shop, we purchase a couple of watercolors of Budapest and Szentendre scenes and a really nice original porcelain painting by a Hungarian artist now residing in Italy. Meanwhile, Mom picks up some small gifts for our nieces.

Nicky and I in front of the cross at the Szentendre central square

The remorseless sun is once again a major foe. Nicky and I are lucky enough to find a store that, almost as an afterthought, sells 1.5-liter bottles of cold water for 1 euro apiece. After a steady diet of teeny-tiny bottles of mineral water, this seems like a luxury (and you can't blame the store owner for trying to stand out from the crowd in any way she can). For lunch, we seek shade under a grape arbor at the Labyrinth Restaurant, which also houses the "National Wine Museum." We got a lead on this place thanks to the Internet, and it has excellent food (Nicky and I both "keep it cool" with chicken salad dishes). We can't pass up the chance to explore the "Wine Museum," but it turns out to be much more extensive (and damp, and puddle-strewn) that we thought, so we only spend a few minutes there. The restaurant has a few tables down there... with a heater. That's a real cellar, all right.

Back in Budapest, Nicky and I decide to prepare for the arrival of my relatives a few hours hence by going to the New York Palace pool to cool off. We're expecting your standard hotel pool (with the depth measured in meters, I suppose), but what we find is something that resembles the interior of a velvet Elvis: black and white fiberglass walls with wavy, cavern-like surfaces, purple-bluish lighting, whirlpool-style jets, "Barry White" mood music. The pool is so narrow that Nicky and I barely have room to swim side by side in comfort. Not only that, but the water temperature is as goopily "semi-warm" as most of the non-air-conditioned rooms we've been in. Evidently, the European ideal of a pool is very different from our own. I wonder whether this is the reason why Americans and Australians tend to win most of the swimming medals.

We cool off following our swim (and, yes, we have to) in our room's shower, get "dressed up" (to wit: fresh polo shirts!), and, at 5 p.m., meet the relatives in the hotel lobby!


This is the first time I've ever met my Aunt Matyi (third from left) and my 2nd cousin Dani (standing next to Mom). I'd only met my Cousin Agi (Matyi's daughter and Dani's mother, third from right) when she visited the U.S. over the Christmas holidays back in the late 70s. Agi's husband Csaba (next to Nicky) knows English, having studied it and lived in England for a time, so he does the translation work. Standing next to me on the far left is Dani's wife Marcsi, who is expecting a baby. My Cousin Lotsi (Agi's brother) and his sons unfortunately weren't able to make it.

We were expecting only a sit-down in the New York Kavehaz, but "the folks" have other plans: they pack us into two cars and zoom us off to Margaret Island, a popular recreational spot in the middle of the Duna. The island used to be a religious retreat (old churches and ruins can still be seen there) until it was turned into a public park. We make the circuit of the island, or something close to it, before settling down at an outdoor snack bar for some ice cream and drinks. Nicky has brought along her netbook computer and soon we are showing everyone pictures of our dogs, Mom's grandchildren, the works. Even more important, we exchange the all-important electronic contact information. After Dad passed on, communication via "snail mail" became much harder to sustain. Now, thanks to Google Translator, we will be able to translate English messages into Hungarian and vice-versa. This will mean a lot to all of us.

Csaba brings us back to the hotel via "the scenic route" including a ride over the Chain Bridge, a great view of the Parliament building, and a "drive-by" of Budapest's huge synagogue, one of the largest in Europe. We say a final goodbye in the lobby and, yes, there are some tears.

Nicky snapped this nice pic of Parliament from Csaba's car.

Up next: Tracing Dad's trail to Vienna; watching some second-echelon bicyclists; more classic art; and we get in a real Schnitz!

European Trip Diary, Part 2: A Full Day in Budapest (July 9)

After a good night's sleep, Nicky, Mom, and I meet in the New York Palace's breakfast rooms and partake of one of our "semi-packaged" trip's key perks: an all-stops-out, included-in-the-price buffet breakfast. And we're not just talking "breadels," mini-muffins, and stale coffee here, folks. I've seen Golden Corrals with a narrower selection of menu items. In addition to cereal, juice, milk, coffee, fruit, yogurt, and croissants -- the standard lineup for what's commonly known as a "Continental Breakfast" -- the spread includes Hungarian and Italian cheeses and meats, prepared salads, compotes, scones, and cakes. These big breakfasts will prove to be a real money-saver as time goes on, since we will generally be able to "get away with" only one additional main meal each day.

Our first "target" of the day is one of Budapest's landmarks -- Heroes' Square on the city's original "Millennium" Metro line. This line dates back to the late 1890s and has carefully maintained decor and scrubbed wall tiles to match, but graffiti is still visible on the subway car. The same holds true, remarkably (and depressingly) enough, at Heroes' Square itself, despite the much nicer, parklike neighborhood. Given that the square commemorates the great heroes of Hungary's past, this is a little like someone spray-painting the Washington Monument or the Lincoln Memorial. One object that the vandals haven't disfigured is the imposing central monument representing the seven Magyar tribal leaders who founded what would become Hungary over 1100 years ago. You can easily imagine these fellows spurring their horses on in pursuit of Ring-bearing Hobbits in their off-duty hours.

The broiling sun soon convinces us to get off the shade-less square and find a cooler place to explore. The Budapest Museum of Fine Arts, which flanks the square on one side, seems like a good choice. A surprise awaits us, however: no air-conditioning! We'll need a water break before we're through with our exploration of the exhibits. An English-speaking docent gives us a brief introductory tour before leaving us in the "Old Masters" section, which features a wide variety of paintings from the 14th through the 19th centuries. The "Masters" include Velasquez, Goya, Tintoretto, "El Greco," Gainsborough, and Pieter Bruegel the Elder. These great works are, for the most part, left to brave the overheated conditions AND hot, incandescent overhead lights without any protection! Granted, the Museum is scheduled to undergo "renovations" soon, but what about the damage being done in the meantime? It's enough to cause an art-lover to despair...

Luckily, Rodin discontinued his usual practice of using me as a life model before going on to sculpt "The Thinker"

Right around the corner from the Fine Arts Museum is our lunchtime destination: Bagolyvar (Owl's Castle). This restaurant holds the unusual distinction of having won awards for the best place in Budapest to have a "power lunch," while, at the same time, having all of its food cooked and served by women, giving it a special "Mom's homemade" touch. The place's spread-eagle appeal is further illustrated by the giant plush figure of the 2010 World Cup mascot by the door coexisting with coy advertisements inviting "soccer widows" to come in for food specials during the tournament. Nicky decides to fulfill one of her culinary missions and have schnitzel, while I content myself with barbecued pork, garlic mashed potatoes, and the obligatory cucumber salad. For the three of us, the bill comes to about $55 US. Not bad, all things considered.

Having penetrated deep into Pest, it's now time to hie ourselves across the Duna to "Old Town" Buda and the Castle District. We take the Metro down to the river and walk across the famed Chain Bridge, taking care to keep in the shade as much as possible (which isn't easy at this torrentially warm time of day). Then, it's up the equally famed Budavari Siklo (funicular railway) to the Castle... come along with us for the ride!

We now begin to feel the effects of the unseasonably hot weather. We do manage to visit the courtyard of the Royal Palace, St. Matthias Church with its distinctive tiled roof, and the terrace at Fisherman's Bastion -- memorable sights all -- but we intersperse our wanderings with frequent breaks and one pit stop for water and sunscreen lotion. Nicky and Mom are having some trouble walking on the cobblestoned streets, as well. We finally decide to cut our losses and catch a bus to take us to Moszkva ter M2 Metro station, a Communist-era eyesore built like a badly-fashioned bundt cake. From there, we travel to downtown Pest and the Central Market -- sort of the Budapest equivalent of Baltimore's Lexington Market, only with much more class and much less crime -- but we get there only five minutes before the place closes. We take that as a suggestion to take a break back at the Palace.

A further word about the M2 Metro line. American lawyers would wet their drawers dreaming of potential personal-injury lawsuits if they saw how this line's escalators operate. The steps move at least twice as fast as an American escalator's -- and there's no disclaimer included to warn the terminally dim of the potential danger. Nicky took a video of one escalator ride; if you listen closely, you can hear the air whistling!

The New York Palace's pride and joy is the New York Kavehaz (Coffee House), a sip-and-sit salon where literary movers and shakers liked to gather during the halcyon days before World War I. It went into a long decline, along with the hotel itself, before the recent renovations restored it to something closely approximating its original splendor. Since the only other eating place "on site" has a dress code, we have our "snack-in-lieu-of-dinner" at the Kavehaz. Here is where I have my obligatory plate of authentic Hungarian goulash -- which many people think is a stew, but is actually more like Chunky Soup (did I really just draw that analogy? My bad). The place is pricey on the real New York level -- 16,000 forints (about $60) for what amounts to a deconstructed (the technical term is "reduced") sandwich, a cold plate, a plate of soup, two ice cream dishes, and drinks -- but we aren't cheated in terms of quality. I was a bit disappointed, however, with the repertoire of the piano player we shared with the snootier establishment next door. He could have done so much better than cycle through show tunes and tread-worn movie themes... like, play some Liszt, for example?

My goulash. (And don't bother asking, Gossamer, there are no spiders in it.)

Before we went to the Kavehaz, we received an unexpected but gratifying piece of news: we've managed to make contact with my relatives! Before the trip, Mom had written my cousin Agnes (Agi) using an address Nicky had obtained from the internet. The letter arrived and was "processed" just in time for our arrival. Agi's husband Csaba, who speaks English, left a message with the front desk asking for a meeting. Mom calls Csaba, and we're now set to meet everyone at 5 pm in the lobby of the Palace, after the three of us take a planned side trip to Szentendre, an artists' colony a few miles up the Duna. We're not sure exactly who is going to be able to attend, but, whatever the lineup, it will be a much anticipated event and one that I'm so glad has finally come to pass.

Up next: Szentendre; Margaret Island and some heartfelt moments with the relatives.

European Trip Diary, Part 1: From Baltimore to Budapest (July 7-8)

After Nicky and I pick up my Mom in Wilmington in the late morning of the 7th, we head up to JFK Airport in NYC. That messy melange of terminals was difficult enough to navigate in 1980, when I flew to France on my one previous European trip, so Lord only knows what lies in store for us 30 years on, especially with the hassles of "enhanced security measures" (which are unlikely to ever be "de-enhanced" thanks to 9/11). Nicky had been so worried about JFK parking being booked solid that she had convinced me to reserve a place with the off-site Avistar parking facility. Avistar comes highly recommended and does in fact turn out to be a good choice: reasonable prices, friendly attendants, and a convenient mini-bus shuttle to the international terminal where we are to board our overnight Swiss Air flight to Zurich, and thence to Budapest.

Security and baggage-check go like clockwork (a Swiss watch, perchance?) and we're soon in the gate area. Foot travel is occasionally delayed by large knots of people (including many security guards -- so much for "enhanced security"?) watching the World Cup semi-final between Spain and Germany on large-screen TVs. We decide to find our gate and wait until the crowds have dispersed before getting something to eat.

Just down the corridor, an El Al flight to Tel Aviv is in the process of boarding... and when I say "process," I mean it. The double-decker plane is like one of those "clown cars," with a constant stream of people (mostly Orthodox Jewish and Hasidim families) pouring into it. Our Swiss Air plane is much more modest in size.

We finally get to nosh at Buffalo Wild Wings (the closest thing in the area to a sit-down dinner place) and, despite a relatively modest meal, get stuck with what will prove to be the heftiest meal check of the entire trip. Most of the blame can be assigned to Mom's and my nine-dollar (!!!!) beers. I never appreciated BWW's slogan, "You have to be here," as much as I do right now. If all "captive audiences" were treated like this, they'd suffer from "Stockholm Syndrome" almost as a matter of course. The "talking heads" on all the ESPN stations on the restaurant TVs are all going on at length about "The Decision," aka LeBron James' exercise in egotistical self-indulgence scheduled for Thursday night. You know the old line about millions of Chinese not caring who wins the Super Bowl? Somehow, I doubt that Hungarians will be clamoring for minute-by-minute updates of LeBron's thought processes.

The plane leaves on time just before 9 p.m. and we settle in for the 7 1/2-hour ocean-leap. Not surprisingly, I can't sleep, even with the use of BreatheRight nasal strips in lieu of my CPAP device. There's just too much noise in the cabin, and it seems as if half of the passengers have decided to suck it up and use videos, music, and video games to get them through the night. My mind is taken off my predicament, to a certain extent, by the constant "rolling update" on the position of the plane that is broadcast on the main cabin video monitor. The two meals that we are served on board are pretty decent, as well. We arrive at Zurich airport more or less on time but more than a little "wilted."

The Zurich airport is fairly modest, but there's a welcome reminder that we're now in Europe when Nicky and I go into a convenience store and I see a copy of a Donald Duck LUSTIGE TASCHENBUCHER on a magazine rack. Granted, there are only two copies present, but that's two more than you'd see at 99.99% of American convenience stores. Our short-hop flight to Budapest awaits... but first, the gate is changed on us. Then, rather than step right into the plane, we have to take a shuttle bus onto the tarmac. There's more strangeness afoot at the gangway as two young children and one older child are led onto the plane first... escorted by police. The same routine will be followed when we deplane in Budapest. We never do find out what it was all about.

The Zurich-Budapest trip is uneventful until close to the end, when a female passenger in the rear of the plane throws up and then complains of chest pains. A call is placed to the Budapest airport

to have medical personnel available when the plane lands. This of course means that the rest of us (except for the three kids and their "escort," of course) have to wait to deplane until the medicos get on board, assess the situation, and take out the patient. At long last, our shuttle bus takes us to the airport terminal. It's about 3:30 pm local time.

On the drive from the airport to our hotel -- the Boscolo Budapest New York Palace -- Mom, who visited Budapest with Dad in 1977, immediately remarks on the larger number of personal cars. Not that there are that many on the road anyway; Budapest is very well served by an extensive public-transportation system. Post-1989 capitalist inroads are reflected in the presence of Burger King, McDonald's, and some other of the usual chain-store suspects. The Palace, however, is located in a very nice downtown neighborhood where local shops predominate. Built in the late 1890s, its grandeur reflects an era in which Hungary was feeling its oats as a full partner in the "dual monarchy" of the Hapsburg Austro-Hungarian Empire. Many other significant structures in the city, such as the Hungarian Parliament Building and St. Stephen's Basilica, date from that same era, providing a welcome architectural continuity amidst all the modern and Communist-era buildings.

View of the lobby of the Budapest New York Palace

We are exhausted but figure that we have just enough "gas" left in the tank for one "exploratory mission" into the heart of the "new city" (Pest) by the banks of the Duna (Danube). Following a 90-minute "snoozelet," we set forth on the Budapest Metro in quest of enlightenment and nourishment, not necessarily in that order. We walk up and down the Duna for a while trying to choose from a variety of cafes, which is surprisingly easy to do given that a great deal of menu information is available in English. Such was not the case back in the 70s. The influx of visitors and the pernicious difficulties of the Hungarian language have virtually obliged any service person who wants to work in Budapest to learn English and at least one other language (generally German, as we are to learn). The city itself, despite the obvious efforts made to keep it clean and safe, seems a little run down at the heels, like a good suit with a shiny pants bottom and scuffed knees. Most discouraging is the immense amount of graffiti on display. I am not one who buys into random scrawling on walls as an "expression of artistic spirit," but the Budapest authorities seem to have no problem with it. At least virtually all of the graffiti is G-rated and apolitical (save for one irony-free declaration to "KILL RACISTS!"). Graffiti is also a problem in the Metro, which has long been a source of civic pride in Budapest but is starting to show its age; the cars on the M2 (red) line would not have been out of place on the NYC subway line in the 1970s and early 1980s.

We finally decide to eat at Dunacorso, a likely-looking cafe, and it's an excellent choice, a bargain despite its "touristy" aura and with good local food (I get a chicken paprika dish with fleshy noodles and cucumber salad). Two negatives: (1) the waiter, though friendly, doesn't seem to want our tip, preferring to loiter a good deal of the time with some nearby "diners" who seemed to have tiny cups of coffee and nothing else; (2) no free water is available, obliging us to buy mineral and "still" water by the bottle. We'd been warned that water and soda were often as expensive as beer in Europe, but this was a real wake-up call -- especially since the weather is unseasonably warm and dry.

Before returning to the hotel, we take a trip up and down the Duna on the free #2 yellow tram. There aren't that many seats available on board and the tram rattles and bangs something awful, but the ride helps us orient ourselves and provides some really nice views of such Budapest landmarks as the Parliament Building, the Chain Bridge, Gellert Hill, and the Castle District of the "old city" (Buda).

Buda Castle, as seen from the #2 tram across the Duna

Back to the Palace and it's time for bed, already! Before retiring, I do get a chance to look at the latest issue of the pink-paged Italian daily sports paper LA GAZZETTA DELLO SPORT (I imagine it's available because an Italian company runs the hotel) and there, to my amazement, is an advertisement for TOPOLINO (issue #2851, for those of you who care) at the bottom of the front page! Not only that, but it includes an ad for a promotional toy tied in to the latest PAPERINIK (DUCK AVENGER) story! Imagine all those hard-boiled Italian soccer, racing, etc. fans who took this ad for granted. I certainly don't.

Up next: Heroes of Hungary; "Old Masters"; a restaurant where the women do all the work and like it; plus, we finally make contact with my relatives!