Não é.

Friedman diz (no livro) que precisou ir à Bangalore para entender como a globalização tem mudado os conceitos socioeconômicos e que hoje o mundo tornou-se plano. Sorte a dele. Porque eu precisei de bem mais do que algumas, talvez muitas viagens ao desconhecido para achar que o mundo é só uma bola.

E de uma música ridícula para ter certeza.

Depois de cinco litros de Leffe Blond, uma iguaria dos mestres cervejeiros belgas, sai da caixa de som a voz sintetizada de Dido, uma insossa e magrela cantora britânica. Devo ter perdido o horizonte por uns minutos e o máximo que pude responder a meu curioso interlocutor daquele dia era que aquilo fora a senha para pedir a conta e ir embora, já era tarde. Ele pulou da cadeira e disparou: eu não acredito que essa música lhe lembra alguém do seu passado.

E revelou que também não podia sequer ouvir o nome daquela cantora e já ficava deprimido. Era a cantora preferida da noiva, que por um motivo que preferi não saber, foi embora para nunca mais voltar. Há cinco anos.

Situação ridiculamente banal e corriqueira. As pessoas deixam as pessoas para trás desde que o mundo é mundo. E quase todas as mulheres deste mesmo mundo parecem gostar de Dido.

O que transformou o espanto de simples recordações em um prisma de nem tão simples conclusões foi justamente a planície daquele instante demente.

Naquela noite de segunda-feira, me vi na condição de forasteiro-brasileiro tentando decifrar em húngaro um cardápio de comidas da Bélgica, conversando em inglês com aquele amigo do Azerbaijão, pedindo uma cerveza em portunhol para o garçom catalão. Garçom, por sinal, que aparentemente achou normal uma chinesa ter me confundido com um parente da Mongólia.

Jamal, o interloutor do Azerbaijão, parecia honestamente assustado em ter de acreditar como uma fração de segundos poderia invocar, segundo ele, lembranças do mesmo tipo de dois seres humanos de mundos virtualmente tão diferentes.

Tentei lembrar do mapa-mundi e localizar o Azerbaijão. Se ele achava que o Brasil era uma grande floresta tropical, eu achava que o Azerbaijão nem existia.

Naquele dia, ele compreendeu como não adiantava de nada conversar sobre mulheres russas e globelezas brasileiras, porque às vezes nossa vida inteira está ali saindo de uma caixa de som e a gente agora não podia sequer olhar pelo retrovisor, mas apenas lamentar e tentar enganar as lembranças todos os dias antes de dormir.

Anseios, planos, frustrações, amores e cobranças, numa estrofe passam a ser todos iguais de uma ponta a outra do globo. Pareceu-me a comprovação de uma teoria antiga a qual, talvez, estivesse conseguindo comprovar empiricamente ali.

E muita coisa perde o sentido a partir daí.

DEPOIS DO CASAMENTO –

Efter brylluppet é um filme norueguês que todo mundo deveria assistir. No Brasil, chama-se Depois do Casamento (After the Wedding/2007) e não tem absolutamente nada demais, nenhuma novidade, nenhum roteiro inovador. Apenas retrata de modo naturalmente cruel (de tão simples) como a cabeça de homens e mulheres parece programada para perseguir os mesmos objetivos e sucumbir às mesmas cobranças.

Jamal não queria voltar para sua cidade-natal (Baku, capital do Azerbaijão) porque a ex-noiva havia se casado com outra pessoa e provavelmente já teria se tornado mãe. Filhos que deveriam ter sido dele, imaginei. País pequeno, seria demais voltar a conviver a poucos quilômetros do que ele considerava ser o sentido de sua vida, mas que agora dava sentido à vida de outra pessoa.

É uma lógica enviesada; a qual geralmente só os homens entendem.

Naquela altura da madrugada, não havia mais ninguém na taberna. O garçom catalão e o senhor belga juntavam-se à mesa e, talvez para animar a conversa para os recém-chegados, o azerbaijano quis saber de uma romena que me elogiava por todos os lados. Não dei trégua, mas pedi que fizesse uma “leitura” da situação, agora que ele parecia enfim aceitar minha teoria de que conceitualmente o mundo dele não tinha nada de diferente do de ninguém, frase pela qual o vultoso senhor belga apenas coçou a barba grisalha como se lembrasse de algo importante.

Sem nunca trocar um diálogo comigo, mas tendo me visto inúmeras vezes bebendo sozinho e ouvindo jazz na taberna, o barbudo belga apenas apostou que a romena era casada e, com a confirmação do azerbaijano, tomou a palavra:

Ela deve ser linda, jovem e bem casada, mas não está acostumada a viver sozinha. Talvez soubesse o que era liberdade, mas não a queria para si. Precisava de alguém por perto, mesmo sabendo que seria um ombro temporário, alguém para preencher certas lacunas. E apesar do trocadilho infame, a lacuna em questão era apenas a possibilidade de conversar sem ser julgada, ter um pouco de segurança ocasional vinda de uma pessoa que, de tão normal, chegava a ser tediosamente interessante porque não se interessava por ninguém, não fazia planos para o futuro e ficava feliz em virar a noite na mesa do bar achando que ia aprender algo novo, mas que mostrava-se cansado de escutar as mesmas frustrações e os mesmos desejos de todos os continentes. Ela amava o marido, sem dúvida, mas não viu nada de mal em trocar um beijo enquanto bêbada, depois não viu nada de mal em guardar o segredinho de eventualmente preparar um café da manhã para aquele andarilho que parecia apenas contar os dias como se fossem números de relógio. E assim ela também vai contando os dias até o dia em que a vida dá mais um giro, um dos dois vai ter que ir embora e o mundo dela volta para o mesmo lugar de antes, tão previsível quanto tudo aquilo.

Do Oiapoque ao Chuí, do Ushuaia à Groelândia, do Alasca a Vladivostok, eu apenas questionei: no seu país seria diferente?

Ninguém precisou responder.

E assim refletimos até o amanhecer sobre as frustrações e anseios das romenas, búlgaras, tchecas, lituanas, armenas, russas, eslovacas, iugoslavas, francesas, alemãs, americanas, de todas as idades e de outra dúzia de nacionalidades que ainda hoje não faço a menor idéia de onde ficam no mapa.

Conosco não seria diferente. Vem em mente todas as mulheres você conheceu um dia, todas que lhe amaram e odiaram – não necessariamente nesta ordem – todos o momentos bons, todos os momentos ruins, todas as expectativas e todas as cobranças subsequentes.

Quase sempre como se houvesse um pote de ouro ao final do arco-íris e a gente precisasse cumprir certos requisitos para alcançá-lo.

Vem em mente todas as histórias que vi, ouvi e escrevi durante tantos anos nas metrópoles ou nos cafundós de judas do sertão, do deserto, da esquina de casa, do trabalho, dos amores perros. Todas as solteiras, casadas, jovens, madames, suburbanas, surtadas, inteligentes, frustradas, desencanadas, todas elas que de um jeito ou de outro compartilharam as exatas mesmas frustrações, expectativas e os exatos mesmos sonhos de padaria ou bolos de noiva.

E certamente, na diagonal entre Vladivostok e o Ushuaia, ouviram as mesmas respostas e sofreram as mesmas desilusões. Porque para onde você olha estão as pessoas com as mesmas buscas e os mesmos sonhos de felicidade empacotados em planos pré-pagos divididos em seis vezes sem juros.

E muita coisa perde o sentido a partir daí.

DEPOIS DO DIVÓRCIO –

Dido vai continuar saindo de caixas de som o tempo todo e em todo lugar.

A romena do café da manhã voltou para o marido e para o país dela, deixou o cabelo crescer, comprou uma casa de campo na Transilvânia, há dois meses teve uma filha que batizou de Paula e diz estar muito feliz.

Uma linda moça tcheca em busca eterna do seu príncipe encantado no Leste Europeu não o achou, mas soube que anos depois foi para a Espanha e, quem sabe, conseguiu encontrá-lo por lá. Um brotinho italiano de olhos azuis achou o tal príncipe, mas ele voltou sozinho para os Estados Unidos e, dia desses, ela resolveu se mudar para o Congo no serviço de voluntariado das Nações Unidas. Onde deve permanecer ad infinitum, presumo.

Uma jovem deusa ucraniana de parar o trânsito (em qualquer lugar do mundo) aparentemente ficou com medo de ficar solteira para o resto da vida e, aos 25 anos, casou-se com o primeiro empresário rico de Kiev que pediu sua mão. Ele tem 55 anos e eu respondi o e-mail apenas dizendo “o amor é lindo em todas as culturas do mundo, não é?”. Ela deve ter entendido a ironia e não respondeu mais.

Três anos depois, Jamal me conta que resolveu voltar para o Azerbaijão, após longas temporadas de trabalho no Cazaquistão (sim, do Borat) e na Rússia. Casou com outra e, dia desses, me manda um e-mail dizendo que a ex-noiva ainda não teve nenhum filho com o novo marido, então “talvez ainda haja uma chance de reconciliação”. Oito anos depois.

Pensei em responder que quando a gente precisa achar que sempre há uma chance, geralmente é porque não existe mais nada.

Mas não tive coragem. Não apenas porque eu sabia exatamente o que se passava na cabeça daquele coitado, mas porque geralmente é assim, a gente gira tanto e termina parando no mesmo lugar, sucumbindo aos medos iguais e cobranças desiguais, encontrando as mesmas pessoas com as mesmas expectativas e os mesmos sonhos.

Parecem trocar de nome e de endereço, mas permanece todo o resto.

Daqui a outra meia dúzia de anos, provavelmente vou receber um e-mail de Jamal dizendo que voltou a morar junto com a fã de Dido e que vão ter uns oito pequenos azerbaijanos. Um dia vamos todos nos encontrar para uma peixada no Quirguistão ou em qualquer outro ponto gélido e cinzento do globo terrestre.

E vai ser igualzinho ao boteco da esquina lá de casa.

E nesse dia todo o resto vai perder o sentido.

_____________________________________

CRÔNICAS RELACIONADAS

• As cinco mulheres de todo homem
• Pequenas burguesas, grandes afeições
• As mulheres que nós ainda amamos

After almost one year living in Budapest, if someone asks me to make a list of what I have learned or what most caught my attention, it would be a problem to fit everything in this space. What I know for sure is what I will miss, some things more than others, of course. Usually, what catches your attention is not something necessarily good or bad, but the unexpected. And the first thing to catch my attention, completely unexpectedly, was the different treatment you get being a foreigner and being a Hungarian.

I’ve always found Budapest a wonderful place when it comes to people, full of lovely and helpful citizens. And that will make me miss the conversations I have had with Romanians, Bulgarians and, indeed, most Hungarians, saying that the only reason for that helpfulness was based that I was a “tourist.”

Speaking of tourists, I am going to miss the feeling when a tourist, holding one of those free maps, would stop me in downtown and ask for directions, clearly thinking I was a native Hungarian.

If you think the Hungarian language is difficult, try to pay attention to the Hungarian street names. They are insane. But after a month or so, I was not only able to help them out in finding their hotel or the Buda Castle, but would also pinpoint on their map a whole bunch of good restaurants and bars.

I would even suggest good dancing places because, although I do not do this weird dancing thing, I was able to find some good places by mistake or when some ingenuous friends took me there… clearly thinking that a lazy, short, round and almost bald guy would prefer to spend the night dancing instead of drinking.

The only thing I could not help them to do was to find good coffees in Budapest. And I will, indeed, miss the brave weekly journey of finding a new café place and tasting a new coffee, wishing this time it would be strong and hot, not the usual almost cold, weak liquid.

Now back in Brazil, where it is much more challenging to find coffee which is not reasonably tasty, I’ve lost the magic adventure.

I will also miss picky Americans who, after months or even years living in the city, would still complain about Hungary’s delicious food.

It was always funny to notice how many people would complain about the food being heavy; sometimes they would even say “disgusting,” while I felt myself in a good-eater’s paradise with all the terrific duck breast, goose liver and pork tenderloin. With croquette potatoes and “heavy” sauce, of course.

There are some good steak restaurants in Budapest. Usually, they are not cheap, and the steak is never big enough, but for the average Latin American, this is the best you can get in terms of true red meat, barbecue style. You won’t have the side fat, but at least you’ll have the blood.

In some of these places, you can clearly see the pride on the waiter’s face when he talks about their meat and their cooking and, after a while, when he asks where I come from – oh boy, I will indeed miss those frustrated faces when they realize they are talking about meat to a Brazilian.

The beautiful Hungarian women are an isolated chapter, although I admit I was even more delighted with the Romanians.

One particular thing I will miss is the long debates among them when it comes to relationships.

It seems to me that Hungarian women are always complaining about Hungarian men, that they are sexist, rude and think they are sluts. On the other hand, men in Hungary are always complaining that Hungarian women are stupid, cold and picky.

Those that say there is a coffee tradition in Budapest are not telling the truth. At least not exactly. That does not mean to say they are lying. Most probably they just do not appreciate coffee enough to realize how difficult it is to find good coffee around here. Or maybe they are not as addicted as the average Latin American.

The number of so-called cafés in Budapest is high, and rising. In my neighborhood alone, I have seen two new cafés opening in the past three months – and none of the older ones has gone out of business. What I have noticed, however, is that quantity is not a synonym for quality. Also, size does not matter, but content does.

In Budapest, finding good coffee is an adventure, and not always a pleasant one. There are some places that sell a really good cup, but only a few, and they are the exception that proves the rule.

A similar oddity happens in the United States, when you see so many people carrying huge beakers of coffee. There are even plastic “cups” for almost one liter of coffee over there, amazing! At some coffee places in the States, you can have a very big coffee for a curiously cheap price. But does it taste good? Not really.

Unless, of course, that is the only kind of coffee you drink, which is the case of a lot of people I know. Those big coffees have only a slight taste of real coffee, the rest is water, and perhaps some other stuff to simulate the taste that I have no idea of, and don’t even want to think about.

In Budapest, the high number of cafés is a threat and an invitation. A threat to your caffeine addiction and an invitation to adventure around the city in search of a good cup of beans. Sometimes you give up and ask a Hungarian friend what he considers to be a good coffee place. The result is usually disappointing.

The thing is, a good coffee place around here does not mean good coffee. Instead, it usually means a good atmosphere, good service and, most notably, good desserts. In this sense, there is a coffee tradition in Budapest, a coffee atmosphere. But no coffee quality.

And they are cold! Oh my sweet devil, they are cold. How is it that people from this part of the world that do not have a problem in drinking cold coffee? In Brazil, cold coffee is a sin. You just don’t drink it. If the cup is bigger than you expected, you either drink it quickly (before it cools down) or throw away the rest if you see you won’t make it in time.

That’s why non-addicted people go for the small coffee in the first place. Cold coffee does not fit. Ever. Even in the summer (or now, with this amazing weather we’re having), the coffee cools down very quickly.

And it is expensive here as well. I do not mind paying a little more for a good coffee, but paying an over-valued price for bad coffee – which will get cold in seconds – is not really a clever thing to do. Coming from Brazil, which is one of the leading exporters of coffee in the world, I have realized that I will not survive in Hungary on these cold and weak coffees.

It is one of our sacred things, that we keep close to us during breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks and at work time. For me, survival in Hungary also depends on the caffeine level in my blood. With this kind of coffee, I would probably be arrested for rioting, demanding quality control.

I can already picture myself carrying a huge sign in Deák Ferénc tér: “Gyurscsány, listen to us, we don’t only want coffee, we want good coffee,” Well, I guess I’ll go entirely for Pepsi for now.

Quick note: the headline for this column was inspired by one of Brazil’s most important movies, Black God, White Devil (Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol), a Glauber Rocha masterpiece, filmed in 1964. It addresses the socio-political problems of 1960s Brazil, although it was set in the ’40s, and is considered by international critics to be one of the best Brazilian movies of all time.

Is Budapest a big city? It depends on whom you ask. One of the demographic oddities of Latin American countries is the general absence of medium-sized cities. We have huge metropoli – usually capital of a State – where most people live nowadays. And then we have thousands of small cities, especially in the rural areas. In Brazil, this is particularly odd, because the landmass has such continental measures that, in theory, we should have more medium-sized cities and less populated mega- cities.

But we don’t. With more than 5,500 cities, each capital city is a huge place. In that sense, someone like me would say Budapest is not a big city, even with its two million inhabitants. Actually, the city where I come from (Recife) has almost three million inhabitants and it’s not one of the biggest in Brazil.

Once, when I was talking to a friend from Switzerland, she mentioned how the country is increasing in population, surpassing seven million people. And than I was able to understand why no one can understand how a single city like Săo Paulo has 11 million people itself, not including the smaller districts surrounding the city. If you include those, the number goes up to 20 million people. For the curious minds out there, Rio de Janeiro has about seven million people, being Brazil’s second largest city.

I always found it funny how most Hungarians feel surprised when I share these numbers. Also, for the average European citizen, Budapest is a very big city. I’d rather say Budapest is a little giant. This makes the city also an odd place when you give it a closer look.

One of the oddities of this little giant is how each part of the city is so different from the next. It might be normal if these parts were not so close to each other. But all you have got to do is catch the metro and stop by the last stations of the blue or red line. It is the same Pest side, the same city, but completely different. Notice how people behave differently and how different everything is: landscape, streets, shops etc. It’s usually not like that in Latin America.

Buda vs Pest

The Buda side is a whole different story. For me, it’s another city. I remember the first time I went walking there, I had to give up after a while. Let’s just say that round-big-bellies and huge upwards streets do not match.

The next time I took the bus to find my way around, and was impressed with all those large, rich houses with their big gardens. It felt like the countryside, like a parallel universe. Everything so calm, so peaceful, so silent… was that Budapest? They told me so.

I was even more surprised when I found a distant neighborhood Pest-side that looks like one of those small American cities, away from everything, with big houses one by the side of another.

By that time, I felt pity for the thousands of tourists arriving here every month and getting to visit only downtown and all those tourist spots we all know.

I wonder how many people out there consider downtown the true side of Budapest.

From my early days here, nothing impressed me as much as the way that a lot of Hungarians expressed their feelings about each side of the city. If you live in Pest, the Buda side is not a different city – it’s a different world. And people living there are different too, they say.

Some people from Buda talk of the “citizens” of Pest as a different population. And all we have between them is a river. From where you can easily see the other side, by the way. There are so many things making Budapest a big city. And so many things making it a small one.

There’s the restaurant behavior that I talked in our last column. There’s also this awkward habit of closing places (even fast food chains) before the actual closing time. Sometimes, you step into a restaurant 45 minutes before closing time and they just say it’s over, no more food.

In the heart of downtown, after 10 or 11pm, you will be a very lucky man if you find a decent place to eat in that remains open. Most probably you’ll have to stick to the daily gyros or those Nagyi Palacsintázója pancakes. And they all taste the same, oh boy.

As a matter of fact, there’s not much life in Budapest for the night walkers out there. If you’re not the club type, or if you don’t like noisy bars full of international youngsters, most probably you won’t find good spots late at night. Compared with some other big cities in the world, Budapest sleeps at night. If you don’t, you will be out of luck. Just get used to it, sleep earlier and you will be just fine.

You have just finished a delicious duck breast with croquette potatoes. You are feeling good after the nice wine, directly from the Hungarian countryside. The palacsinta pancake for dessert was marvelous. You are full, your belly feels happy (and bigger) and all you want on Earth right now is to pay the bill, go home and have a good night’s sleep. There’s only one problem: you can’t leave the bloody place.

No matter how hard you try to look for the waiter, or raise your hand once in a while, no one will see you. No one will notice that you are done and want to actually pay; they will make you wait until a good soul finally comes to see if you need anything. When they realize you just want to pay and leave, they will make you wait again. And then a bit more.

With so many good restaurants around Budapest, it is very easy to get in and taste various gulyás and páprikas dishes. Getting out, however, is always a matter of zen-buddhist patience.

After a while trying to make a waiter notice, you start to ask yourself if there was some sort of invisibility potion on that last croquette. After all, the waiter took your order so quickly and was very kind to explain what palacsinta means. The food did not take long to arrive and it was clearly well-made and cooked on time.

So, why on Earth do these creatures make you wait so long for a simple bill? It happens in restaurants of all social levels and also in bars. This kind of annoyance does not happen in Latin America for a very simple reason. If the bill takes too long to arrive at your table, people will just leave the place.

After all, paying the bill should not be considered a favor, but it seems to me that in many places around Budapest there are a lot of waiters who think they are doing a favor bringing us the bill. I want to pay. If you don’t want to receive the money, it’s fine by me. I can just leave and go home.

But Hungary is not Brazil and, apparently, the Hungarians are very patient people. Perhaps they are all zen-buddhists, who knows.

GET LUCKY

You finally get lucky and can now see the bill in front of your sleepy eyes. Cash or credit card, the waiter asks. You reply “card” because you don’t want to count out the hundreds of coins distributed around the six pockets of your clothing, or perhaps you need to save the money for buying a bottle of wine on your way home.

A few seconds later, the same fellow comes back and says “Sorry, Sir. We are only taking cash.” Holy mother of the devil! if you are only taking cash, why did you ask in the first place?

This sort of thing happens more often than people realize around here, they just don’t recall it because usually they are drunk.

The restaurant staff usually have two excuses. First, “the card machine is broken” or “offline,” leaving you thinking if you are the first person of the night who wants to pay with credit card. Second, they say the card machine was turned off because the restaurant is closing or something like that, keeping you wondering if they really work for a restaurant or for Greenpeace. Saving energy, you know.

In Brazil, one of the few laws that people really follow with pleasure is the consumer law related to credit cards. If a commercial spot accepts credit cards for payment, it should have the logo of the card company in a clearly visible area.

If the logo’s there, or if the place states it accepts credit card, it has to accept credit card no matter what. If the machine is offline or broken, that is not the consumer’s fault.

If the restaurateur knows that, for some reason, he cannot accept credit cards on a particular day/week/month, that fact should be stated to the consumer before any order has been taken or, even better, the waiter can just remove the logos and warn the clients they are only taking cash.

The reason is very simple. What happens if you don’t have enough cash to pay the bill? Are you going to call the police because you can’t afford a gulyás after eating it? And even if you have the money, but want to save it for the wine before heading back home, that’s your choice, not the restaurant’s.

But do not worry, my friend. In the end, there will always be a clever waiter who will solve the problem for you. He will point to the street and say: there’s an ATM machine right around the corner…

The holiday season is a time when people get along more, cherish each other and even find themselves to be a little more romantic. In other words, it means that nine months from now we’ll be seeing hundreds and hundreds of shiny-lovely-little-Hungarians being born in Budapest. It is the joy of nature, the magic of procreation. There is only one minor problem: they will all be called Gábor.

In the beginning of my stay around the city, I thought it was just my personal impression, perhaps the wrong stereotype that we, as foreigners, commonly carry about a place we don’t know. Perhaps it was by chance that I was meeting dozens of Hungarians with the same name, five out of 10 called Gábor.

But after few months and a few wines shared with a lot of Gábors later, I have realized there is an ancient and unsolved mystery in Hungary about people’s names. And it should remain unsolved, because it seems no one can clearly explain why on Earth this happens in Hungary. Some say it’s due to the role of having the family name before the first name. Hard to buy that.

If you meet a male Hungarian, the chances are that his name is Gábor. Or Sándor. If not, try György, László, Zoltán or István. If he turns out to be none of these, please shake his hand and thank his parents on my behalf.

I have lost count of how many Gábors and Sándors I’ve met. I do agree the names are nice and imposing, but why so many? The lovely Hungarian women are in the same boat as well. It is impossible to count how many Eszters, Ildikós, Judits, Zsuzsannas and Gabriellas you will find along your way in Budapest.

During my first weeks in Budapest, I went to a small reunion party where I met a nice guy called Gábor. He introduced me to another friend who, guess what, was called Gábor too. How should I call them? Just call me Gábor, they said. Yes, I know, I understand your name, but how… well, never mind. After a couple of glasses of the always-good Hungarian wine, we started to talk about politics. At that time, I realized I still didn’t know much about Hungary’s politics – perhaps I still don’t. By the way, what’s the mayor’s name? Big news, it’s Gábor. Perhaps I’d have more luck with the President. Oh, no. His name is László.

I came up with this silly idea to investigate the unsolved mystery about Hungarian names, and the results were even sillier. My first attempt relied on Hungarian art movies. I watched flicks such as Kontroll, Taxidermia and Szabadság Szerelem, just to mention three really enjoyable films.

And there they are, directors and actors: Gábor, Sándor, Zoltán, Eszter. All there, plenty of them, every time. There’s also Valami Amerika, which is sort of a cliché, but I could not stop watching it thanks to the incredible beauty of the actress who plays the role of Eszter. Oh my God, her real name is also Eszter! What are the odds?

If you watch any American movie, you’ll soon realize that most Latin people are called Juán, Jesús, Carlos or Maria. However, if you visit any country in Latin America, although we have a lot of Carloses and Marias, they’re nothing like as common as the Gábors and Sándors.

It is not a bad thing, it is just funny. As a matter of fact, I am pretty sure there’s a cultural meaning (I hope) behind all the paranoia about naming the children after Gábor or Sándor. But, hey, there is also a whole bunch of very nice and historic names out there. Please, think about that in nine months from now, especially after the excess of good Hungarian wine you’ll probably have in the holiday.

After all, it’s not only about the magic of procreation. It is also about the magic of replication… of Gábors.

I’ve already seen many dead bodies in my life. I’ve played pool with convicted murderers. I’ve seen a guy being stabbed in the chest right at my side. I’ve got drunk with pirated whisky and hot beer. The list of bad things I have seen is not short. But I have never before come so close to seeing heaven turn itself into hell as I did while covering the recent riots in downtown Budapest.

Even though I’ve been living in the city for fewer than four months, and still feel a little like a lost foreigner, I felt ashamed seeing the places I had learned to like so much being transformed into a raging arena.

I can’t stop wondering how the ordinary Hungarian felt after waking up the day after the Oct 23 riots and seeing his country so badly shaped on the front pages of newspapers and TV shows around the world. As for me, as weird and selfish as it might sound, I had to explain to my pals back in Brazil that the Budapest they were seeing on TV was the same “beautiful and peaceful Bp” I usually mention in my emails and stories.

All of a sudden, all those nice, metropolitan places I walk daily – Astoria, Deák tér, Andrássy, Blaha Lujza and so forth – were filled with an unprecedented set of insane extremists and police officers fighting each other. Back in Brazil, scenes like these are not unusual. Actually, in some of the really huge cities, like Rio de Janeiro or Sao Paulo, it’s quite common, to say the least.

But we are not in Brazil. We’re talking about a country which impressed the whole world 16 years ago with a peaceful transition to capitalism, and has managed to be a peaceful and cheerful place since them. What brings tourists from around the world to Budapest is not only its natural beauty and thermal baths. There is also this whole feeling of being in a receptive and pleasant place, with receptive and pleasant people. It is what I like to call the “yellow feeling.”

I had believed I was quite aware of what was happening in Hungary, at least in a political point of view, since it has kept me a bit busy working for the Brazilian media.

However, when I saw a couple of very old fellows who fainted in front of me running from the cops and their rubber bullets, an officer being beaten by a couple of extremists, one masked guy protecting himself from the tear gas and being beaten by five cops all together, I realized I didn’t have a clue about what those people were thinking of achieving with such unnecessary violence from both parts.

Trying to explain the politics behind the riots is okay, but finding the real reasons might well prove difficult to pin down. And, just like Brazil, I’m inclined to say that most of those raging youngsters have no idea what they were trying to do, why they were there and the meaning of those red-striped flags. From this foreigner’s point of view, I would describe the recent riots in Budapest as being like a very bad trip.

XENOPHOBIC – The riots are gone (hopefully), but the bad images they have left behind are, unfortunately, still present in many people’s minds. What scares me even further than the physical violence is the spoken violence present in many racists and xenophobic speeches I’ve heard against Romanians, gypsies and other eastern European nations.

Although Europe is known worldwide as a highly xenophobic continent, the last thing a foreigner would expect to see in Hungary and nearby countries is xenophobic aggression against each other. But when it comes to real life, the sort that is not included in tourist guides and books, foreigners are usually wrong with all their pre-conceived ideas.

What most Hungarians, Slovaks, Romanians, Ukrainians and, indeed, all eastern European residents perhaps don’t realize is that, for the most part of the so-called “rich Europe,” everyone living in these countries is taken together as an “easterner” – and not in a very good sense.

In the end, when it comes to xenophobic tensions and from what I’ve been seeing for the past decades, it doesn’t really matter. Because, whether you are right or wrong, the result will be always the same: xenophobia is a pre-historic behavior, and its roots, consequently, are very deep.

Paulo Rebêlo
Folha de S. Paulo – 24.out.2006 [ link original ]

A Hungria parou. Deveria ter sido um dia de festa e reflexão nas comemorações da Revolução de 1956, a revolta democrática e anti-soviética que ontem completou 50 anos. Mas, em vez de festa, os húngaros viveram um cenário de violência sem precedentes desde o dia em que a rebelião foi reprimida pelos tanques russos, duas semanas depois de começar.

Jovens enfurecidos, policiais sem controle, bombas caseiras, gás lacrimogênio, balas de borracha atiradas a esmo, idosos desmaiados, crianças correndo desesperadas, adultos sangrando, dezenas de feridos. As ruas no centro de Budapeste viraram praça de guerra, sem distinção entre manifestantes pacíficos ou extremistas.

Logo cedo, um incidente na Praça do Parlamento envolvendo manifestantes que acampam no local desde meados de setembro, quando começaram os protestos contra o governo do primeiro-ministro Ferenc Gyurcsany, foi minimizado pela polícia. Durante o resto da manhã, famílias inteiras saíram de casa segurando a bandeira da Hungria, em protestos pacíficas contra o premiê do Partido Socialista (ex-comunista), que admitiu ter mentido para a população e para a União Européia sobre as contas públicas.

Reeleito em abril, Gyurcsany aumentou impostos e cortou gastos para adaptar o orçamento do país às exigências da UE.

No começo da tarde, grupos extremistas, ligados à oposição ultranacionalista, começaram a radicalizar em lugares-chave de Budapeste, atirando pedras e pedaços de metal contra policiais. Tanques que haviam sido postos nas ruas para lembrar a invasão da cidade pelos soviéticos foram tomados pelos manifestantes e lançados contra os policiais. Helicópteros e esquadrões de elite entraram em cena e a situação desandou.

Enquanto o governo iniciava uma série de eventos formais e fechados ao público em geral, o direitista Fidesz, principal partido da oposição, que boicotou as celebrações oficiais, fechou uma das principais avenidas de Budapeste. Líder do partido, o ex-premiê Viktor Órban discursava para dezenas de milhares de pessoas, em uma clara simulação dos eventos de 1956.

Órban afirmou à multidão que o governo era “ilegítimo” e pediu um referendo sobre o programa de reformas econômicas implementado por Gyurcsany e aprovado pela UE. “A confusão atual é causada por um homem, que levou o país a uma crise política e moral ao enganar o povo”, disse.

Ataque à polícia –

Ali perto, as agressões contra policiais aumentaram e a resposta veio com o batalhão de choque avançando para cima de todos sem distinção. Bombas caseiras e coquetéis molotov começaram a ser usados pelos manifestantes. De noite, muita gente ainda procurava abrigo para fugir do gás lacrimogênio e das balas de borracha da polícia. Grupos de cinco a seis policiais se formavam, fechavam o cerco a algum manifestante e o espancavam, diante de cinegrafistas e fotógrafos.

Algumas das principais estações de metrô foram fechadas; ônibus não podiam circular porque as avenidas estavam bloqueadas. Até a madrugada de hoje, manifestantes permaneciam em partes do centro.

Em discurso nas comemorações oficiais, o premiê Gyurcsany, que lidera uma coalizão dos socialistas com os Democratas Livres (liberais), respondeu à crítica de que não tem legitimidade para liderar os festejos citando um dos heróis da Revolução de 1956, o comunista reformista Imre Nagy, dizendo que ele “foi o modelo para todos que governaram” a Hungria após a queda do comunismo, em 1989.

Nagy, premiê na época da revolta, tentou declarar a neutralidade húngara frente a soviéticos e americanos, mas acabou deposto e foi executado em 1958 -ele foi um dos 341 húngaros condenados à morte na época, ao lado dos cerca de 2.700 mortos e 22 mil presos.

Em 1956 os húngaros não tinham opção a não ser se rebelarem, disse Gyurcsany, enquanto hoje a Hungria é um país democrático. “Apesar do descontentamento muitas vezes justificado, a maioria dos húngaros acredita que a democracia parlamentar é o modelo mais indicado para expressar a vontade popular”, afirmou.

Do outro lado, a oposição mostrava imagens de veteranos de 1956 que deram as costas e não cumprimentaram o premiê durante uma entrega de prêmios e medalhas, ocorrida domingo. Nem Gyurcsany, 45, nem o opositor Órban, 43, eram nascidos em 1956.