After settling the Breganz-Belken bill, I was down to my last few euros. I tipped him amply, honoring the tradition of reckless generosity exhibited by the soon-to-be-destitute.When asked to pay an entrance fee at the Szechenyi Austro-Hungarian Gallery Archives, I made a great show of looking for a fanny pack that had been stolen. The first guard summoned a second guard. I thought that everyone who’d ever met an American tourist knew of the term fanny pack, but this wasn’t the case with these two. Much more attention was paid to the bewildering phrase “fanny pack” than to the pretend fanny pack’s theft.“So the pocket is on the outside,” said the second guard. “It is a fanny pocket.” He patted his rear.“Yes,” I said, “except I wore mine in the front.”“And where is it now, your fanny pocket?” he asked.I told him that the straps had been cut by a thief, thus the whole pack, or pocket, was gone.“Fanny pack,” the first guard said. Saying it gave him permission to stare at my ass.
