What brings out our best

 

Europe is edging toward an energy crisis.

Everyone is getting letters from their gas and electricity providers about price hikes.

By law, my office must limit the temperature to 19 degrees. They're offering blankets and everyone is layering up.

A war rages nearby. Europe boycotts Russian oil and gas. Underwater pipelines explode. Everything costs more, far more.

During the warmer summer months, I told a friend that aside from the news reports and refugees, the war in Ukraine feels distant from Berlin.

It feels closer now.

The upside is that we're finally noticing where our cheap gas and electricity came from, and what it's funded.

If you still don't know, google Bucha.

It's a chilling, helpful reminder of why we stopped buying gas from them. And why it might be worthwhile to feel a little colder this winter if they get less of our money.

As a Canadian, winter always seemed to bring out the best in people. A stranger's car won't start? We give them a boost. We'll shovel a neighbour's driveway, or buy cup of hot chocolate for the panhandler in front of Tim Horton's.

I'd like to think this energy crisis could bring out the best of all us. That we wouldn't sacrifice our principles to pay less for heating and electricity and everything else.

Principles aren't easy, convenient, or painless. And that's the point. It's the toughest winters that bring out the best in people, if we let it.

Child-like Enthusiasm

 

Just a few days into my sick child's leave, I felt the rush of anticipation for the day's first hot cup of coffee and our morning dose of Ninjago.

For the uninitiated, Ninjago is a cartoon featuring a few Lego ninjas with special powers and their own primary colour. They fight all sorts of magicians, stone Samurai, robo-ninjas, and anthropomorphic snakes with their signature martial art: Spinjitsu.

We're into the fifth season, and it's fair to say I'm just as hooked as my nearly 4-year-old son. 

The level of enthusiasm for Ninjago in the household has been slowly building. First, it was the occasional reference after a day at the Kita. Then, there were the drawings and the priced pages of a colouring book. Then we started watching the show on Netlfix.

But, the tipping point into Ninjago fan-boy-dad-territory was the savage virus that knocked out almost all the kids, and parents, at our Kita. We've now been marathon-watching these Lego martial artists between naps, pleas to nap, matchbox car races, book-reading, and other activities meant to tire out a child that refuses to act like he's sick.

I've gone from a white belt to a black belt in Ninjago knowledge. How serious is it? I've moved beyond merely mastering the ninjas' names, colours, and powers, to thinking, "He's acting like a Cole..."

 

I've also had some deeply serious conversations about what the Green Ninja's superpower is. The answer? "The Green Ninja's power is Boom-boom."

There's so much about fatherhood you're not prepared for. At best, you think you're prepared for something, but find out you're not. 

 

But here is a situation I didn't know I should be prepared for: This powerful, unabashed enthusiasm for something — dinosaurs, cars, Ninjago, whatever — that's so strong that you happily get pulled into it. It's like getting sucked into the Darkness (season 2 for the Ninjago noobs), but far less ominous.

Simple pleasures of a Hungarian train

Magic hour at Keleti train station, in Budapest

The train has only pulled out of the station a few minutes ago, and it already takes on the familiar feeling of a Hungarian train.

The polite exchange of seats, as those with reservations ask those without reservations to get out of their seats.

The sound of a can of Dreher being opened. Then another. Then another. 

A lady sitting down across the table from us, pulling out a tin-foiled bundle and unwrapping a sandwich.

At the next station, a man sits beside her. As the train pulls out, he too pulls a tin-foiled sandwich from his luggage, unwraps it, and takes a bite.

We already finished our snacks and sandwiches.

Train travel is easily romanticized, as if it's still like solving mysteries on the Orient Express or watching the world blur past you on a bullet train.

But for most of us, it's a necessity. No Belgian detectives solving mysteries. And it's the local, so there's plenty of stops and no bullet speed.

So if you must take the train, why not make the most of it and stretch out and crack open a beer? You have to pay for the train ticket, so pay for train food when you can eat a delicious sandwich?

Any kind of travel doesn't need pricey upgrades or faux luxury. Often, it's the simple pleasures that make the trip worthwhile.

A ride on a Hungarian train is a refreshing return to that grounded normalcy. 

Once, on a flight from Budapest to Rome, I unwrapped my own tin-foiled wrapped salami sandwich. The old lady across the aisle from me nodded in approval. The flight attendant man gave me the stink eye.

It's not his fault. Airlines have managed to monetize every last bit of enjoyment of travel, while removing the last shred of dignity from the experience of flying. 

Passengers are treated like cattle, milked for every cent.

In the process, they've priced out the simple pleasures. Can you really, truly enjoy a $10 beer? Or do you feel compelled to tell yourself that it's a good beer?

And what about those sandwiches made under questionable circumstances with unidentifiable ingredients?

Train companies have yet to crush the joy of traveling and the simple pleasures that come with it: leg room, a homemade lunch, and cold beer. 

These things aren't sacred or even necessary, but they add something unmistakable to a train ride. That's something Hungarian train passengers haven't forgotten.