Less of a sport, more of an art
Who would have thought that a turbulent past could be a premise of an enthralling novel? I wasn't referring to the unearthing of Suleiman the Magnificent's tomb in a small Hungarian town. The feature made me recalled "The Historian", where I yearned for Europe. I would love long stories. I could study the distinctive features of a thousand-year-old landmark for hours. And my housemates would call me a spoiled child. They were surprised when I told them that I don't have any holiday plans this year. I went to Machu Picchu last summer, which was a Walter Mitty moment. (I wanted to be Tintin. I was hoping to stumble into a secret path, which would lead to another lost city. Nothing could beat the view from the top, but I was dead tired.) It was a different feeling whenever I thought of the other side of the Atlantic. Elizabeth Kostova prompted me to think too much.
A young academician was searching for his colleague, whom he considered a mentor. He was a historian, who was intrigued at Vlad the Impaler's final years. Many historians suspected that the Prince of Wallachia met his end somewhere in Hungary, and what happened to Suleiman could be a coincidence. His visit to Budapest turned into an unforgettable moment. Bittersweet feelings were stirred while he stared at the Danube. He ran into a haughty lady, who had issues with her father. And it turned out that they were looking for the same man. All of these occurred before the Hungarian Revolution.
For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I made the wrong decision of not pursuing a degree in History. I was too late to find out that it was possible to have a dual degree. I happened to be interested in storytelling, and I could tell that I have a talent for it. My tutor noticed it, even advising me not to get carried away. I couldn't help it at times. I had enough of it for the day, prompting me to check my mailbox. (It seemed like weeks since I last opened it.) My housemate sent an interesting story.
Exploring unchartered territory
Jim loved to be the center of attention, even if he was the butt of jokes. During a holiday in Hawaii, he tried surfing. He ended up rolling underwater. His inability to stand on the surfboard was due to his weight. He resolved to lose some pounds. My housemates and I were grinning at him. I never thought that this won't be the last of it. The International Olympic Committee (OIC) decided to include surfing in the Olympic program. He was excited about it, but he was afraid that it would be a one-time thing.
I read his e-mail with half interest, where he believed that the inclusion of surfing was another attempt by the OIC to make the Summer Games more attractive to the younger generation. In other words, a group of retired athletes would still want to be hip with the crowd. And then I wondered if waves would greet the Tokyo residents. I didn't ponder long, as I was intrigued at his other e-mail. Gymnastics for bodybuilders. I knew Jim was serious about getting fit, but this seemed like another level.
"Bodybuilding is often associated with a limited range of motion, its wildest gymnastic territory limited to simpler routines."
Reach for your toes with your hands. Lift your hands to the sky. Jump a little bit. Don't pull anything. Thousands have tried it, so it doesn't seem new. Furthermore, these steps don't seem intellectually stimulating. I might get a clearer picture when Jim could show some moves. I would be dumbfounded if he expected me (and our other housemates) to give a score. The last time I looked at my body, it was neither small nor robust. Perhaps I was thinking too much. I could be reading for a long while. And I wasn't thinking about the upcoming term.
