Wherein We Meet Attila the Hun
This year, he got caught. We had arranged to meet in Frankfurt. I was flying from Switzerland. He was flying from Tel Aviv. We were going to meet in Frankfurt, (which I think must be the biggest airport in continental Europe) and fly onto Budapest, Hungary for a long weekend because it is on my Bucket List. Poor Mr. Big got off the plane from Tel Aviv looking like a war-torn refugee.
Me: What in God’s name is wrong with you? You look like you’ve just gone six rounds with Mike Tyson.
Poor, dear Mr. Big: They caught me in the Tel Aviv airport.
Me: What do you mean they caught you? They caught you smuggling human body parts? They caught you spying on Israeli business practices? They caught you soliciting a Jewish hooker? What?
Big: They caught me with two passports.
Me: Oh My God. What happens now? Are you going to be dismembered and mailed to me in small packages?
Apparently, he was interrogated in the Tel Aviv airport by Mossad agents as to why he had two passports, (TO CIRCUMVENT EXACTLY THIS SITUATION, YOU IDIOTS!) and they scrutinized every single, solitary trip he has made in the past two years, (which was like, um, over a hundred). They went through his wallet and scrutinized every single, solitary business card he was carrying, (which, unfortunately, included a number of Arab sheiks’ cards), and they concluded that A) he was a legit American business guy who did business-type things all over Europe, the Middle East and Africa, and that B) he was not out to massacre Zion.
Well, that’s a relief.
Y’all are chuckling, but this is my Corporate Wife life. Massage head. Go to Budapest.
St. George Hotel.
Also, up in Pest, ha!, you’ve got your requisite palace, your requisite cathedral and you’ve got the President’s pad. Out in front of his house/office, you’ve got your requisite Honor Guard, in this case, Hungarian soldiers. Just about the time we arrived in front of the building, they had a Changing of the Guard, which held Mr. Big’s interest for about 30 nanoseconds and then he was ready to leave.
THERE’S NOTHING THERE TO SEE, DEALERS. WASTE OF TIME. MOVE ALONG.
It was during our search for antiques and other goodies that we stumbled upon Attila. The Hun. Yes. We walked into one gallery because it had laaarge paintings. I have a design weakness for buying one giant painting and making a whole room work around it. It’s just how I roll. Anyway, the dude in the shop saw us looking at one of his paintings and we started to chat. Well, we chatted in English and he chatted in something that was sort of close to English. Let’s call it Hunglish.
I guess our eyes were popping out of our head, because Attila quickly explained that “He is Serb, my guy”. Well, that explains everything. Obviously.
At this point, it was up to Mr. Big to seal the deal because that is what Mr. Big does, he seals deals. This was the actual moment when Attilla gave Mr. Big his business card with his name on it and it was Attila. I was swooning. Swooning! No, sir, your name is not actually Attila? Yes, yes it was.
Of course, while my beloved was busy exchanging cards and email info, etc., I was thinking, “Oh my God, my blog people are never going to believe this in a million years!. Attila. The Hun. With a Guy, who is Serb, who is, someday soon, going to show up at my house in Lausanne with a painting the size of king bed. I will take his picture, just for y’all.
You just can’t make this stuff up, folks.