Sick in Hungary

No, I don't mean that I'm sick of Hungary, but I'm physically ill.

And I don't usually like to feel sorry for myself, but contracting mono in a foreign country when your contact teacher doesn't seem overly enthused to help you navigate the Hungarian medical system, makes my feelings of self-pity become a little bit more valid than usual.

As soon as my contact teacher found out that the closest doctor spoke English, she decided that I could do everything on my own, forgetting that sometimes those who are sick still need someone there to comfort them and help them through the Hungarian pharmaceutical exchanges/interpreting instructions on how to take medications.

It all started with a sore throat and fatigue. Nothing could really be identified until I had a blood test. I skipped the three days of school before winter holiday and after multiple sighs, my contact teacher said that yes, she'd have to help me get my blood test. We went early one morning relaying back and forth forced banter. She sighed that there would probably be an enormous line of sick, coughing patients wrapped around the staircase, but there was nothing of the sort when we arrived. So we took a number and stood. I told her I'd like to sit down because I was feeling very weak and swallowing was like trying to get down a handful of nails wrapped in sandpaper with the sharp edges poking out.

"Aren't you scared to get your blood taken?" she finally said after a blanket of silence lasting about 20 minutes. Well, yes, I thought to myself, but I'm really trying not to think about it. It's even more frightening when you take a number and after #47 comes up on the digital screen, I'm to go into a room with an open door to get a needle thrust into my elbow vein by a very large woman who speaks no English.

As the needle goes in, I'm trying to think happy thoughts, but I hadn't planned on this woman taking so much blood. I hadn't prepared that many happy thoughts, so I'm replaying the same ones over and over in my head, but each time I do I can't help but look out onto the block of Soviet style flats and thus my happy thoughts become paler with each round. Soon enough its over and my arm is very tingly.

We meet my contact teacher's daughter down in the lobby. She is there to drive her mother back home. As I haven't eaten anything in a while, just had what seemed like an excessive amount of blood sucked from my arm, and am weaker than a newborn fawn on spindly legs, I was expecting a lift back to my flat where I could collapse back into sleep. Contact teacher points to the tram and says, "the tram stop is over there. See you later." I stand huddled at the tram stop under cold gray skies while she and her daughter speed past in their nice warm car.

Ok, I made the last sentence up, but it definitely would have won me more sympathy.

I pick up my blood results the next day without any help from contact teacher. I can't understand a damn word of the gobbledygook on the paper, so I set it aside and wait for my doctor's appointment next week. At this time, my illness has no identity but I'm popping amoxicilin after pleading to the doctor that I think I have strep throat.

Christmas is a few days away and I figure that I'm on medication and have been feeling a little better. Still don't understand why my neck is swollen with bumps in strange places or why the ball of my foot is stiff and hurts to walk on. But I go to Laura's flat in Hernadnemeti for two days. I didn't want to spend Christmas alone.

We spend our Christmas watching DVD's, making sugar cookies, and playing Monopoly. I periodically pass out on Laura's enormous beanbag chair several times over those two days.

At my doctor's appointment the next week, he takes one look at my results and pounds his fist on the desk, "I knew it! I hit the nail on the head!" I'm more distracted that he knows this phrase than whatever he's hit the nail on the head of. He tells me I have mononucleosis. I'm thinking that it would have been good to know this before I traveled elsewhere and had some champagne.

I think I'm over the worst of it, but I've still not heard any word from my contact teacher checking to see if I'm still alive. I had a lovely rash yesterday, but I've managed to fight that off and am on the home stretch to recovery.

It's times like these that make me feel stronger. If I can get through all this, other struggles seem minute in comparison...

And when in doubt of anything else positive to say, it's easy to just chalk this up to a "good story" and "experience."

On Hiatus

I haven't posted for some time now, but that's simply because I've been kept away from the computer. I will resume all writing after my teaching ends this week on Friday and so begins Winter Break.

I have not fallen in a ditch, died, been taken by the elements...or whatever else. Although I have been sick. Currently, I'm trying to recover. I'll be back soon. I promise.

Galway and the Western Coast of Ireland

After having an amazing weekend in Dublin, I needed to rest on the train to Galway. Dublin is on the eastern coast of Ireland and the city of Galway is on the western coast at approximately the same latitude. I was looking forward to the train ride. For one, because I love the soothing yet exhilarating feeling of being in a steady moving vehicle. At the train station, I bought myself a magazine and prepared to soak in all I could...after all, these magazines weren't at internationally imported prices.

Harps and I melted into our seats for the next 3 or some hours to Galway. I don't think I've ever had such a relaxing train ride. When we got to town, we booked a hostel and restauranted. Over quiche and seafood chowder, Harps and I tried to plan the rest of our itinerary. Whatever we had planned at the time did not pan out. It was nice to fly by the seat of our pants and change our minds at the last minute if need be.

Now on the western coast with the sweeping Atlantic wind and rain roughly jerking around our umbrellas, we trudged out to the grocery store for food in order to save money. After seeing the price for our train tickets, then picking our jaws up off of the floor, Harps and I had made a pact to eat and sleep cheaply from now on. Thus we entered an "already decked out for Christmas before Halloween" mall/grocery store. For the first time in a while, I saw Pop Tarts on the shelves. I almost bought some but refrained, keeping my obsessive splurging to strictly English magazines.

Our tight budget and shite weather didn't keep us from venturing out to the local cinema. We actually had such an urge to see a movie, that when we walked to the first one and realized there wasn't a movie playing for another 2 hours, we marched off to the other theater...such was our craving for endless selections of movies in English. We passed a creepy cemetery boasting several Celtic crosses sitting under a full moon. Harpswell wanted to come back to have a look around on Halloween, the next day. We never did. But we did see a movie called "Last Kiss" about several couples who all have crises about the people they're with. Just as scary I guess.

The next day, we didn't have a chance to explore Galway in daylight, because we hopped a bus and a ferry to the Aran Islands that morning. A bright sunny one at that. The islands lie off the coast of Galway and Harps and I had our minds set on a day spent seeing the island by bike and having a picnic somewhere. Both of our wishes were granted. The bus ride was very scenic taking us past several square patches of wild green field, old cottages cut out by stone wall upon stone wall. These stone walls could have been built by a young pair of siblings who found it appropriate to spend their afternoon stacking stones upon each other just for giggles. The landscape had such an authenticly Irish look to it.

Harps and I both dozed off on the rocking cradle of a ferry that gently took us to Inis Mor, the biggest of the Aran Islands. All of us disembarked, an amalgamation of tourists from all parts of the world, gradually splitting off onto different parts of the island. Tourist vans beckoned for us to climb aboard, but we had our mind made up to take bikes around for the day.

But first, it was onto the Aran Sweater Market. My interest had started out with me feeling a little chilly, especially as we were voyaging further out into the Atlantic. The sweaters were originally hand-sewn by fisherman's wives to keep their husbands warm while out at sea. Sounded like just the remedy for goosebumps. Immediately upon walking into the store, we were overwhelmed by the strong scent of sheep's wool.

Outside a calico cat quietly crept around an upside down metal bucket. Small ships bobbed rhythmically in the bay.

Both Harps and I found the sweaters of our dreams and made a purchase. Mine being a dark green cable zip up with hood. Our sweaters paid for themselves by the end of the trip and are continuing to pay for themselves as I sit wrapped warmly in mine typing this. Some nights in hostels that bred odor only capable of being created by men and their dirty feet, socks, and clothes, I would have to use my sweater as an extra blanket (one that I could wear) after literally being forced to open a window and air out some of that intolerable stank.

We made our way to the bike rental with bags in hand. The guys at the bike place took our bags and watched 'em for us while we hopped off on our bikes. At first we couldn't ride without stopping every few feet to marvel at some little forest path, abandoned church, or tempting blackberries on bushes near the road. A car slowed next to us and at first, we assumed he was going to tell us to get to the side of the road more...but such not is the Irish. This man slowed to simply tell us to enjoy our ride. Not two minutes later, a woman walking opposite us on the street chirped out, "Nice bit 'o weather we're havin', enjoy the day girls." Quickly enough, those perma-grins returned to our faces...becoming even wider after discovering a green downhill path leading to a secluded rocky beach.

I had packed our tomato sandwiches made from soda bread that crumbled pathetically before you could get a taste, a can of Pringles, and some apples that morning at the hostel. Harps had stopped at the island Spar and retrieved some Kit Kat's as a surprise. We munched on a stone ledge looking out onto one of the most magnificently natural and peaceful beaches I have ever seen. Behind us, cows grazed and wandered up to their fences curiously at our arrival. The grass in their pastures was unlike most greens...it was vibrantly emerald colored, to the point where it did almost sparkle. These cows were in pasture heaven.

We continued to ride and stopped to observe animals. There were the two cows that appeared to be speaking to us in loud moos, the gorgeous white horses that could have been unicorns so magical was the surrounding landscape, and the swans floating languidly on a sharp blue mirror of a lake.

Harps and I never made it to the famous cliffs of Inis Mor, because we had been too sidetracked with our beach and didn't have the time, but in the end we both agreed that it had been a memorable Halloween.

That night in Galway, we walked the streets and had some pints of Guinness, costumeless except for two green sparkly "things" in our hair. It was a lame attempt at a costume compared to the rest of Galway, who had certainly taken Halloween very seriously. Not too many original costumes, but the people we did see were decked to the nines. We were a little too weathered from a day of biking to take part in much of the festivities, so we headed to the hostel, and rested up for Killarney, the next day.

Getting to Dublin

Teaching abroad definitely has its advantages and one of the biggest for me is the opportunity to travel. Unlike America, Hungary and assumedly other European countries have a fairly long fall break at the end of October and beginning of November.

Itching to go somewhere outside the realms of the post Soviet world, I booked a flight to Ireland with Harpswell. To make the trip even more drawn out, our flight would leave from Vienna and therefore making a train ride from Budapest to Vienna necessary. We both took Friday off from school and headed for Keleti pu. immediately after our lessons on Thursday.

There were several things to be excited about as I boarded the green (HÉV) train that runs along the Danube to get to the train station where I would meet Harpswell. For one, I was about to experience a slight change of scenery. The more detailed anticipations included: being able to speak English to the locals, being able to read all signs (excluding the Irish equivalent above or below the English), seeing a friend from Britain, sampling Guinness fresh from the source, long train rides around the country spent gazing at sheep and rolling green hills, oh and being able to speak English to the locals.

More than anything, I needed to get out of my apartment in Budapest. It’s not so much the city of Budapest from which I needed to flee. It was the routine of teaching and not understanding why exactly I don’t like it anymore. And why I don’t have the same feeling of enthusiasm about Hungarian culture like last year. I needed to stop feeling like I was merely existing and going through the motions of work just to fulfill my contract.

Harpswell and I popped tiny mandarin oranges while saying “szia” to western Hungary. The sun quickly dropped and we pulled into Vienna at night. After meeting two of our hostel mates from Chile and learning that they wanted to find work in Germany, we tucked ourselves into bed attempting to rest for the big trip ahead of us.

Having an unusually fitful night of sleep before, I made another attempt to pass out in the Vienna airport before our plane took off. After being subjected to another flight with a blood curdling screaming child we landed in Dublin. The bus ride to the city center infected Harps and I with perma-smiles. The quintessential tourists with our huge backpacks and ever revolving heads taking in every pub front, colorful door, neighborhood…wondering if our double decker bus had taken us into a movie set.

I liked Dublin…it felt small and manageable with a little river called the Liffey cutting through the middle. True there were many cranes (not the birds) disrupting the Dublin sky, but I looked past that easily and basked in all things written in English.

My favorite bridge over the Liffey River

That night, map in hand, I navigated my way to the Temple Bar District, where I met up with my friend. It was the first time in Dublin for both of us. The weekend passed quickly and Harpswell and I headed out to St. James Gate, home of the Guinness Brewery. The brewery was massive, containing seven floors. The first floor exhibited the ingredients that go into Guinness: hops, barley, water, and yeast...and the brewery didn't hold back any extravagance with their displays. First, there was the sandbox of any child's dream filled with not sand, but barley. Then, we moved onto the hops, climbing up a wall...then onto a fairly big waterfall.

Yes, I could drink this everyday.

What a way to teach what goes into a beer...I know I'll never forget it now. From there, Harps and I paid to get into St. Patrick's Cathedral. I distinctly remember seeing lots of dusty flags unwilling to hide their age hanging on the inside. The souvenir stands, however, had exploded upon entrance to the cathedral and sadly you were immediately bombarded with postcards, rosaries, statues, and other trinkets.

It was onto a train the next day...to Galway...

Double Take

As I was going for a walk around Margit Sziget this afternoon, I saw something that made me laugh out loud. The island was drenched after a steady rain, but the ground is still covered in red leaves. The sun dips down earlier these days making each day seem shorter, thus making me feel a little more depressed...

But I glanced to my right at the sandwich shop and where there should have been a man or woman in charge of the cash register was instead....a dog standing on two legs with its front two on the counter looking calmly out at those passing by. So for a moment, my mood uplifted a little.

I'm sittin' on a novel

It's been a while since I've been here typing on my blog...

I do, however, have good reason for my absence. I am three days back from an overextended fall holiday in Ireland with Harpswell. Expect another long-winded travel narrative from me soon (no exact dates promised).

In short, the trip was incredible, exceeding my expectations in several different ways:

I met up with a friend who I've been waiting a long time to see.

I drank Guinness.

I visited the Guinness Brewery.

I took in lush green Irish landscape from several train trips around the country.

I had Irish stew.

I visited several castles.

I kissed the Blarney Stone.

I daydreamed...a lot.

I bought a lot of English magazines and books.

I saw a few movies, namely "The Last Kiss," and "The Devil Wears Prada."

I discovered my new favorite drink...The Irish Coffee.

I encountered some leprechauns.


For those of you who like lists...maybe this is a sufficient description of my travels, but for those of you who drink up prose like honey...then you just wait...i'll be back with a story loaded with magic and breathtaking scenery....

In the meantime, enjoy the pictures I've just posted on my picture link.

Buying B's

Preparation time has begun for Fall Break's Ireland trip. Needless to say, I'm pretty excited, but also a tad stressed. I leave for Vienna on Thursday where Harpswell and I will fly out of to Dublin.

In the past few days, I've bought some things a girl's just gotta have for a trip like this:

1) Batteries for my MP3 player (which might as well be implanted into my right hand permanently...how can people walk and not jam out at the same time?)

2) Black belt (because some jeans just need it...and a belt adds so much to an ensemble.)

3) Beige-ish bag (I've developed into somewhat of a purse/bag addict but my choices usually never stray from the earthy toned bags.)

Commemorating 1956

October 23rd is a holiday in Hungary. This means a day off of school for kids and a day off of work for most people. Red, white, and green stripes sweep across the city. Flags line each of Budapest’s bridges and enormous flag banners hang over the main ring roads. At night, green, red, and white lights project the nation’s flag onto the Parliament building. Patriotism abound. America does the same for the fourth of July to celebrate independence from England. But when I think of the fourth of July, I think of barbecues, getting together with friends, and fireworks. I usually don’t spend more than a minute or two pondering my country’s battle for independence so many years ago. Most people usually don’t.

Walking around Budapest today, Hungary’s patriotism was just and focused on their former struggle to escape from the grip of socialism (aka communism). This year was different from most, because 2006 marks the 50th anniversary of Hungary’s revolt against the Soviets this day in 1956. People were milling the streets everywhere and during the middle of the afternoon, crowds seemed pleasant. The young and old wore the tri-colored bands around their arms or adorned a pin of a flag with a hole through the middle. Other people carried giant flags, waving or simply resting them on their shoulders. Some flags had holes through the center where the Socialist crest used to be. Hungary has now replaced it with its own.

Liz, Harpswell, Janos and I walked around Pest, passing by a motorcycle brigade and onto the Corvin Mozi (Corvin Movie Theatre) where a demonstration was being held. We couldn’t see much and I couldn’t understand much, so we walked around and just mostly enjoyed the fall afternoon. The temperature was brilliant and from a view on Petöfi bridge, the trees on Gellert hill looked like green, golden, and orange balls of leaves.

Later, after we had stopped at a Turkish restaurant on the main ring to refuel, we noticed that the TV in the corner was showing small riots breaking out on the main ring. More tear gas, “rubber” bullets, and injured policemen. Luckily, we were far enough away from the action, but Hajni (our program’s director) called to warn us about it.

I guess the conditions were right for something out of control to occur on this national holiday. In late September, riots against Hungary’s Prime Minister went on for several days after he admitted to not doing anything for four years and leading his country on in order to win the general election last April.

On October 23rd, 1956, Hungarians revolted against soldiers and were able to banish Soviet rule for several days. The Soviets came back to power soon after, but during that short time Hungarians had won some time for themselves and several of them fled to different countries (including Janos’ dad to America, interestingly enough).
Maybe these riots are all a result of a need to feel in control. Not that they’re acceptable or even appropriate on a day of supposed celebration, but it makes you think, “who can blame them for wanting to feel as though they have a voice?” After being subjected to Soviet rule for years and recently being lied to by their leader …it seems as though the fighting spirit is still alive on this October 23rd 50 years later.

A Gem

Tonight, while taking complete advantage of my Internet time before the school goes to sleep and therefore my Internet conks out as well, I was perusing "Blogs of Note" and I found one very consistent and inspiring blog that uplifted me in a surprisingly simple way. It's at www.threebeautifulthings.blogspot.com.

The fact that one person can log three beautiful things about her day every day makes me lean a little more towards the optimistic sun. It made me think about all the little things about my day that make me happy...secretly happy. I mean secretly, because I don't generally tell people about the way it feels to lean back on my couch with a fashion magazine and gorge myself for hours within the pages or how good the first bite of toast smothered in cheese is dipped in a steaming bowl of tomato soup. These things subconsciously lift us, but we rarely recognize them.

That's why I love the idea of the above blog. I recommend it and you should read it.

Voyages to the Countrysides

Right now, I have some time to write...

I love it when I have time to write, sitting at my desk, clattering away at my Laptop. For the past few days, I've existed inside a tornado...being thrown from one place to the next. For crap's sake, I feel like I have a real job. Ouch! I can't believe I just wrote that. If anyone were to defend that last statement I made, it would be me...but over the past several months teaching abroad, I've realized that it takes a tremendous effort to feel as though you are REAL teacher at a school abroad. Maybe it takes a tremendulous one...because I haven't reached that point. I don't feel like a real teacher as much as my colleagues attempt to help me. I'll get into that another day though.

As for right now...I'll write about non-school related things...aka the countryside.

This past weekend, Liz and I took a train from Budapest to Hernadnemeti, a small village near Szerencs, where Laura lives and teaches. Unfortunately, we had some trouble with the trains and missed our connecting train in Miskolc. So, we sat in the waiting room at the station munching on apples and watching nervously as a drunk beat the living #$%& out of another drunk sitting in the corner. We decided to try to catch a bus to Hernadnemeti, but it never appeared. We stood at the bus stop thinking dejectedly of our last option. It was 11 pm at this point and we walked back to the train station to catch a taxi. Liz and I tried to maneuver our way through Laura's town in the dark using blotchy Hungarian. We were turned around more than once, but eventually the taxi dropped us off safe and sound in front of Laura's beckoning light filled window.

Liz and I met up with Laura and Jenna and we all talked over tea for a short time and then went to bed, preparing to take a morning train to Aggtelek National Park. This park is on the border of Hungary and Slovkia in the northeastern corner, so it was a lot of train, but time seemed to fly, because it was good to catch up with Jenna, who I hadn't seen since last year.

After I left one of my favorite hooded sweatshirts on the train for some lucky soul to find and give a home, we arrived at the park and checked into our hostel. We had wanted to camp there and have an outdoorsy weekend, but the Hungarians on the phone told Laura that it was too cold to camp. So, we were left with the hostel, which proved to be very cozy.



Later in the afternoon, the four of us took off on a hike through the surrounding hilly forests. We had already seen the cave (beautiful in my opinion, but not really rugged and off the beaten path. The trail inside the cave is so marked and so not adventurous in any way) so we decided to pass it up. The scenery that day was very autumn. Rolling hills, yellowing leaves, the faint smell of burning in the air...the whole nine yards. Liz and I had been somewhat anxious to get away from the city for a weekend and be out in the countryside. It was just what we needed. The air was fresh, no car exhaust, and beautiful rolling forests. Although, with this, we also got the inevitable country stare when speaking English.

We hiked, we breathed in the forest air, we paused at memorable sights, and we rehashed CETP memories among other individual ones. We decided to turn around at about 5 o'clock, because the forest valley was becoming a tad dim. On the way back, we somehow got lost. The blue trail was nowhere to be found. We took turns running up the valley floor here and there, tearing through the mass of crunchy orange leaves, attempting to find a the blue paint on a tree. Some of us contemplated how we'd make it through the night:

"I guess we'll get to camp after all!"
"We could always huddle together."
"Those people at the souvenir shop will be our only witnesses and we'll forever be known as the stupid Americans who got lost in the forest."

Marvelously, Liz found the trail with her never-failing eagle eye and we were back on track in no time, but booked it out of that forest as the sun began its dangerous descent and the temperatures became a little chillier. It was a workout for sure.

That night, we had a huge dinner at the local park restaurant where I had bableves (vegetable and meat soup) to warm up, chicken with mushrooms, and a cocoa palacsinta. It was a nice two hour dinner followed by a night in at the hostel. Laura and Jenna went to the hostel lobby to watch "Dumb and Dumber" dubbed, which they said was half as funny. Liz and I retreated to our beds with books. When the movie was finished, Laura and Jenna came back up to the room and we talked into the night, slumber party style (no lights, all girls, tucked in our beds laughing constantly).

It was a much needed trip, but good to get back to Budapest all the same.

The second countryside I'm headed for is...drumroll...IRELAND!! My fall break plans are in order and I'm due to leave on the 26th of October where I'll hop a train to Vienna and fly from there to Dublin. More on that later...at any rate, the countdown is ON.

A Nice Touch

As I was walking down the cobblestoned alley back to my apartment this morning, I noticed that one of the two little cafes located there had comfy blue/green checkered blankets draped over each bench at the outdoor tables. Cafe-goers can wrap themselves in cozy warmth while enjoying a drink as the temperatures continue to drop. That alone would make me want to stop for a coffee (even though I don't drink it). I would take much more satisfaction in sitting outside snugly wrapped in a blanket.

Even as the temperatures drop, the sky is still an aquamarine blue and the sun shines for most of the day. It's the little things that get people. The unexpected. I guess if you're expecting something to be great, like seeing the Parthenon in Athens...it will be good, but nothing with too much build-up can really live up to your expectations. For me, the Parthenon was much smaller than I expected, but taking in the Acropolis and seeing the little unexpected temples here and there was much more fascinating.

To enjoy life as much as possible, I think it's important to stop and notice the tiny, generally passed-over things...the changing of leaves, the coursing of a river, a basket of flowers, the beat and rhythm of a song, the taste of a fresh vegetable or fruit...

These things stand out when you're abroad, because the normal hustle and bustle of everyday life is in a different language that I (as much as I try) still can't understand thoroughly. Instead, the dull constants that are familiar become comforting and beautiful. In America, it's easy to get swept up in getting things done as quickly and efficiently as possible. But, sometimes efficient isn't always the best thing. When something is unexpected and takes you away on a different path, it's easier to notice those nice touches.

Still Stuck Deep in Thought

Most of the week I spend planning lessons, teaching, and worrying about how my lessons will go…and eating…and sleeping when possible. Yeah, sounds a little more stressful than last year. Why? Haven’t the slightest clue.

So, on the weekends, I like to push it all furiously away and escape into place where there are no children swearing in Hungarian, and no colleagues and parents glancing strangely at me wondering where I’m going and what I want. The weekends are my time to spend in the city with my friends and so therefore, I cherish them.

On Friday, however, the weekend didn’t necessarily come so quickly to my fingertips. After using a somewhat angry, but cathartic poem about the thrill of getting to Friday in my two eighth grade classes …and after the kids tumbled chaotically out of the room, I let out a huge sigh of relief and went off to meet two of my colleagues and a group of English teachers who were visiting from Finland, England, Italy, France, and Denmark. They were here for a week in correlation with an international project that my school is participating in with schools in the above countries. On Friday afternoon, my two Hungarian colleagues were taking them to the Castle District in Buda and asked if I’d like to meet them and come along. Although I’ve been to this district a number of times, I went along as it was a beautiful day and I’m always interested in meeting people from countries different from my own.

Everyone’s English was very good and I mistook a woman from Denmark as British, because her accent was superb. Of course, I had to tell her this. Non-native speakers LOVE this compliment. We English speakers take our language for granted. We don’t realize how widely used English is and how many must revert to it for tourists and teachers abroad like me. It’s the default language, the tie between people from two different countries who couldn’t otherwise communicate with one another. It’s mandatory for a lot of children who learn how to write in their own language, and then a year later, start practicing their English ABC’s on paper.

While trekking up the stairs to Fisherman’s Bastion, I introduced myself to a teacher from Birmingham. She and I both commented on how widespread English is. She told me that she was very impressed with the group’s English and how she herself felt bad for not speaking any other language. It’s true, there’s not a HUGE need for English speakers to learn a second language…but that’s not saying they shouldn’t learn one. I think all English speakers should be required to learn a second language.

If not for communication purposes, then to understand the inner workings of a different culture. A language is not just words, but it’s tradition, a way of life, and gives one insight into a different world not otherwise available. The world’s problems are evident and depressing in their enormity…making me feel hopeless sometimes. If there’s one way of gradually developing into a more civilized race, it’s to understand one another. It’s true that hatred and violence stem from ignorance and an overall lack of understanding. When one learns a new language, it becomes impossible not to get at least a little peek into the culture and mindset of that particular people. The more one learns, the more one understands…and the more one understands, the more one can accept.


I went into the Mátyás Templom for the first time on Friday. It’s the beautiful church at the top of Castle Hill and in all my time here, I had never managed to see it, because it had always been closed. I went in, feeling like a tourist again.

I don’t even know what you’d call me now…what is the term between TOURIST and CITIZEN? Ex-patriate? Nem tudom. In the meantime, I’ll just consider myself an enigma…I’ve never really been a fan of labels of that sort anyway.

So I spent my afternoon chatting with Birmingham and my colleague Marika. Birmingham must have been close to my age and kept asking me how it was possible that I could stay away from home for this long and not have my favorite TV shows. I told her not to fret because I did have BBCPrime, my current “golden” channel (consisting of British soap operas, home and garden shows, “The Weakest Link” and many more). Unfortunately, no Seinfeld though. We had a good time talking and she was one of those people that I knew would be a good buddy under different circumstances, but she was leaving in a few days probably never to be seen again.

Some of the French were taking pictures of the distant protests occurring outside the Parliament. From atop the Buda castle, the crowds looked like tiny Lego people. So harmless and far away. I asked Marika if she thought the PM would resign and she told me that she hoped not. She preferred everything to be resolved peacefully and quickly. She tried to tell me in her excited, yet somewhat broken English that because “the change” (fall of Socialism/Communism in the early 90’s) had happened so recently, the mindset of many Hungarians is in turmoil. Roads are being fixed and trams are being modified, but no one is looking at the most important thing of all: the way of thinking. For so long, Hungarians and members of other Socialist countries were equal under one government and taken care of…and now, with that gone, people are hungry for improvement in all arenas, eager for more money and free services. They want to see outside change, but it can’t necessarily happen until the inside “way of thinking” changes.

I soon left to meet Laura who was arriving on an afternoon train from my old stomping grounds in the northeast of Hungary to Budapest. She came to visit for the weekend and she accompanied me to dinner that night at a nice restaurant on the Danube where my colleagues took the group of international teachers. Unfortunately we didn’t get to sit next to Birmingham, who I had wanted more of a chance to talk to. But, we did sit next to my two colleagues and a group of friendly Italians. Laura and I both ordered stuffed cabbage and I flash fried the insides of my mouth when I ate a huge spoonful of her goulash soup too quickly. I hadn’t had an authentically Hungarian dish in a while, so I felt even more like a tourist that night, looking at my plate: rolls of cabbage stuffed with pork and rice sitting on a bed of more cabbage and surrounded by chicken with a hot dog balancing on top, all smothered in sour cream. Ahhhh yes…I suddenly remembered how much Hungarians love their meat and why I had gained a few pounds over the past year.


Skipping ahead to Saturday night, Laura and I decided to get some tickets to the Hungary/Turkey football match in Budapest that night. Liz and Janos already had tickets, courtesy of one of her colleagues. Laura is really into football and I had never seen a match in Europe before, so we decided to give it a shot.

I didn’t enjoy watching the football so much as just observing everything that was happening around us. For one, Laura and I were seated behind the goal, so we didn’t have a balanced view of the field. However, we were in the “party” section of the stadium. We sat, excuse me, stood among younger fans, faces painted red, white, and green, Hungarian flags draped around their shoulders, equipped with blowhorns and Hungarian chants…HUNGARIA!!! The rest of the stadium seemed to sit politely. It felt eerily empty in there, even with everything happening around us.

I guess I was comparing it to American sporting events. Booths everywhere selling crap, crap and more crap. Beer tents, hot dogs, vendors, peanuts GET YOUR PEANUTS! And this stadium didn’t even allow alcohol. In fact, the only things that I saw being sold were pathetic chicken sandwiches…the kind that would have just made you hungrier….iced tea, water, Coke, and chocolate bars. Between every little chicken/chocolate/coke stand was a fleet of at least thirty policemen, rather, SWATmen dressed in all navy armed with glass shields. They had that place under CONTROL. I’m glad I went, but I was also glad to get out of there. There was so much smoking in the stands and Turkey had scored the only goal that night, so Hungarian fans lost their cheer and never seemed to fully get it back, leaving the party section, well, partyless.

It was safe to say that the streets of Budapest were more exciting that night than the actual match itself.

Almost Autumn

When I ask my students what season it is, they reply, "OW-tum." The end of September may be autumn for them and it may be for me when living in the Midwest, but right now in Budapest, Hungary, it is certainly NOT autumn. The weather here is beautiful...no...in fact downright gorgeous. There is absolutely no reason for me to bicker about the weather (a favorite pastime for those of us in the Midwest).

 Every morning, I wake up and glance up to the corner of my window where I can see a slice of sharp blue sky. The temperature is pleasantly cool in the morning and gradually warms up to the cozy 70's. It's perfect running weather in the morning and if there's one thing I've managed to do consistently, it is run. It's not really just about the health benefits...it's more about getting out and moving, walking over Arpad hid, glancing downriver to see Budapest's historical skyline, seeing Margit Sziget, and sweating out any anger/stress/nerves due to any of the following: my students, my colleagues, this nearly impossible to learn language, the nagging question of what I'm doing with my life....you get the picture. Okay, and I'm addicted to the runner's high.

I went for a walk the other night and there were hints of fall in the air. Hints like a subtle whiff of something burning (I never know what it is, but anywhere...the U.S. Hungary, wherever, fall seems to carry with it that burning smell), a rusty tinge on the tips of leaves, and fashionable women everywhere adorning scarves wrapped around their necks like chokers. On my walk last night, under an orange wedge moon, I finally saw the spot where a tree fell down during the Szent Istvan Day storm killing two people. There were wreaths of flowers and pictures and candles sitting atop the stump. I took a moment to pause, remembering that Harpswell and I had been not even two minutes away from that spot on the other side of the bridge.

On a lighter note, it is the WEEKEND and I couldn't be more glad. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD ON SUNDAY OCTOBER 1st!!!!

Kedd

"Kedd" is the word for Tuesday in Hungarian. I go through phases in my life where it is my least favorite day of the week. It's not the first working day where everyone expects you to be a little slow, and it's not hump day either. It's caught in between and if I had my way, Tuesday would be eliminated altogether.

Here are some incidents of note from today:

1) When one of my fifth grade students was silently stumped and couldn't think of a sentence to share in class, the girl next to her looked up at me and said, "Please wait...file loading," with a little smile. I laughed out loud...a lot.

2) I had my first private lesson with 8 year old Tamas or Tom from my 3B class. Usually I wouldn't tutor anyone still in primary school, but Tom has lived in America for 4 and a half years and his English is better than all of my students at Harrer Pal (name of my school). I was nervous at first, because I had to speak with him for an hour and I wasn't sure if he was shy or outgoing. Turns out, Tom likes to talk. He likes to smile, squint his eyes, swing his legs from the chair and tell me about his best friend Kaelan from Ohio. We played Crazy Eights and Blackjack and at 4:00, I told him we were done. He shouted with glee, "Now I can play!!" and flew out of the room.

3) I've just been ding dong ditched again, assumedly by students of mine or some random with an itchy doorbell finger. Surprisingly, I didn't pay much attention to it, as I can pretty much tell who is a serious doorbell ringer and who is a prankster...unless it was you, Liz???

A routine is trying to emerge

One of the biggest things I’ve had to struggle with over the past few weeks is re-adjusting to a new routine. I think I naively anticipated this first month to be much easier than it has been.

I thought that because I’ve already taught in Hungary, everything would be the same. I could use the same lesson plans and accomplish the same things in the same amount of time. Boy how wrong I’ve been. New students, new schedules, new colleagues and new systems have proved my earlier assumptions wrong. When we expect something to be a certain way and that something is not what we expect, frustration results.

Budapest has so much to offer and some of my frustration stems from knowing all that’s out there and me not having enough time to do what I want. But then again, I may be off…

What I’ve been up to this week in list form:

- taught my regular lessons
- ran on Margit Sziget (God bless that island!)
- gave private lessons to a 26 year old girl who works with a dance company in the Buda castle
- went to the “Bard Room” in Buda on Tuesday night for a poetry/fiction reading accompanied with some amateur guitarists who were amazing. SIDENOTE: I’ve never been to a “poetry reading” before, but there was a guest speaker from New York. Liz knew her through some friends, so this is why we decided to go. The Bard Room was scattered with tables and chairs and walls of invitingly dusty books. We walked in and immediately were comforted at the easy-going soothing atmosphere. Liz, Harpswell, and I ordered some tea and took our seats at about 7:00 and didn’t leave until 10:45.
- Checked out a cool bar called “Sark” with Harpswell and her friend George Wednesday night. We sat on bean bags while drinking a beer in the upstairs loft.
- Packed up a bag, my new book “The Lost Continent” by Bill Bryson, some cheese, grapes, and trail mix and headed to the Sziget to read/relax underneath huge leafy trees on Friday night. I met up with Harpswell, George, and her visiting friend Sam on the island where we decided what kind of animals we were most like. Luckily, I don’t think anyone was offended.
- On Saturday, Liz, Janos, Harpswell, George, Sam, and I soaked in the Széchenyi Baths and strolled around Hero’s Square. Later that night, most everyone was tired and retired to their beds, so Liz and I headed out to enjoy the cool Saturday night and had unexpectedly philosophical conversations at a café in the Theater District.

So, I’ve been exploring and keeping myself busy, but still feel a tad off. I’m not completely used to living and working here yet.

The Chaos Continues and Esztergom

Budapest has become a hotbed of newsworthy activity ever since I came back. First, we had the tumultuous Szent Istvan Day storm, and now violent political protest over Hungary’s Prime Minister.

I woke up this morning carrying my tray of tea, crackers, and cereal to the couch attempting to shake the sleep weighing down my head. I turned on BBC World and saw Budapest’s yellow trams and other miscellaneous scenery. I thought I was still dreaming…did Budapest actually make International Headlines?? Apparently, the country’s current leader had spread lies about Hungary’s economy in the general April election in order to win. Last night and early this morning, there were protests that led to injured policemen and torched cars particularly near and inside the State TV Building. For more details, check out: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2006/09/19/world/main2020804_page2.shtml.

Esztergom

On a somewhat lighter note, I went on my first class trip of the year with 7A on Friday. It was a little strange, because I still don’t know my students that well and there isn’t yet a strong rapport. We voyaged to Hungary’s historical capital, Esztergom. This city lies at the Slovak border with the Danube playing as the border between the two countries.

Bridge from Hungary to Slovakia

My colleague and 7A’s form teacher, Gabi gave me a few pages about Esztergom’s history to read on the modern red train there. Although the train was brand spankin’ new, it stopped at every town and village, so the journey took about one and half hours. Once we arrived, Gabi told me that I could come with the class to the Duna museum to do some science experiments or I could wander around Esztergom by myself. I chose the latter. Gabi encouraged me to explore it because I had never seen it before. The city has so much history that has affected the whole of Hungary that I couldn’t resist poking around to see it for myself.

“The results of the most recent archeological excavations reveal that the Várhegy (Castle Hill) and its vicinity have been inhabited since the end of the Ice Age (20,000 years). The first people known by name were the Celts from Western-Europe, who settled in the region at about 350 B.C.”

I trekked around the remains of the castle and wandered around the gigantic Basilica on the hill to take in the views of Slovakia across the river. Although I was alone, I found it nice to be able to “discover” everything on my own, especially when in the presence of such old and monumental history. How many Turks had trundled through this pathway that I was now on?

Overall, a nice trip to start off the year…

"This is Hungary."

I've been reading a lot of travel books lately and taking in the author's perspective on a particular country's culture, people, and habits. Namely, Bill Bryson's take on Britain in his book, "Notes from a Small Island." As I'm currently residing in Hungary, I can begin to give out my own take of this country's way of life.

 There was an incident at the ticket window at my nearby HEV stop. This is a little green train that goes back and forth along the Danube on the Buda side transporting people to and fro. I needed to renew my 30 day pass and so I waited behind an obvious tourist couple. You can spot the tourists by the way they are put together. In my naive days before much traveling, I always wondered how people could tell I was American without even speaking. Now, I know it's a lot of things put together. The hair, the way people carry themselves, and every little attribute that is "off" from the norm of the country you're in.

Anyway, this couple spoke loudly in English to the woman in the ticket window arguing that the ticket machine wasn't working. The woman just threw up her hands, eyes enlarging and eyebrows rising. The woman beside the tourist man said, "Who is responsible for this?" I just laughed silently to myself. This is just something an American would say...needing to figure out the situation and take control...complaining about inefficiency.

Well, Hungarians on the whole are not extremely efficient and as much as this frustrates me sometimes, I like to remember that this makes Hungarians more relaxed and laid back about getting things done. So, if I'm not feeling particularly efficient one or two or three days at school, then no one is going to bite my nose off. Meanwhile, as the tourist couple shook their heads to each other and just utterly could not believe that a train ticket machine could not work, a man on a bike looked at them and simply said, "this is Hungary."

As the Night Wears On...

I feel a little bit better. I'm chalking all of my frustrations up to the beginning of the year when no one knows what's going on. I actually completed everything on my To-Do List today which may have something to do with why I feel more relaxed. I'm usually not one to make lists, but I needed something to feel in control today...a day when I felt as though I were just a wet rag being tossed around in a washing machine, unaware of which direction I would be thrown next.

 Everytime I walk out my door, I see historic Buda (or Old Buda = Obuda)...cobblestone streets (which are a chore in heels or any kind of sandal) statues, old buildings, flowers, cafes (within throwing distance) and I am internally pleased at the neighborhood. My apartment is great and it's starting to feel a lot more like home now. I finally purchased a fan as the school keeps my heat on year round and this has helped me sleep better at night. And I bought two bamboo sticks on impulse for 195HUF or roughly a dollar. I've always wanted bamboo, but have never gotten up the courage to buy any...until now. It's kinda that extra touch that makes you pleased when you walk into your home after a day away.

 I'm getting Internet tomorrow, I think...but it's all good, because my random, moody wireless signal has been popping up more than ever lately. Some other things to be pleased about...I have my very own classroom, tiny as it may be. The fact that it's so small pays off though, because this means that my class sizes are automatically limited. My biggest class so far has been FIFTEEN!! Marvelous!! My room has windows that face the Danube and for the most part, my students have been good, trying to show me how much English they know. KNOCK ON WOOD. Also, my first, second, third, and fourth grades consist of the best kids and are not mandatory. I have blocks of these kids for twenty minutes only which kills some of that attention span problem. One thing that is annoying me, only minor, is the fact that ENTER doesn't work on blogger right now, so I have a wall of font and my ideas cannot be separated.

Some Gripes

It's not necessarily the students that are stressing me out and exhausting me even though my first lesson with 8b was reminiscent of some of my worst classes from last year. It's the colleagues and the seeming utter disorganization of the school that makes me want to hurl myself back into bed and hide under my new Ikea blanket.

 I was supposed to teach 2nd and 3rd grade today in the afternoon so I planned for it last night, but as I emerged from my apartment to go back to school, some of the teachers told me that I probably wouldn't have those classes because they are not mandatory. I thought, "ok, whatever...now I have plans for the next week." Then my contact teacher who will remain anonymous for now (an exact opposite of Etelka) comes up to me when I was supposed to be in my second afternoon lesson and tells me that I won't have them today. I couldn't help but wonder...WHY the HELL do YOU think I'M sitting HERE not TEACHING them??

Now, you're probably thinking I'm being a little harsh. But this was the same woman who changed her mobile phone number and forgot to give me her new one. I had been calling her old phone for ages and never getting a response. When I actually had to ask for it myself, she said, "oh uh-huh yeah i forgot to give it to you." The best way to describe this woman is a loose lightbulb. Something's flickering, but it certainly isn't strong. My other complaints just result from a very confusing schedule of four different 8th grade classes all taught by different English teachers who have different grading systems and who go at different paces with them. I was merely trying to figure out what I'd be doing for Wednesday and my colleagues seemed to think that they should help me with the least relevant topics instead. This makes me exhausted.

 Sure, teaching is tiring, but constantly being given contradictory information really just makes me have to take things into my own hands and hope for the best. I know they mean well, but I think it's hard for them to realize that even though I taught for a year in Szerencs, schools have different ways of doing things. It's not a cookie cutter system. Everyone seems to think I can handle everything on my own and when I do ask for help, I almost wish I hadn't because I really have to concentrate when I'm listening to my colleagues. Their English is fine, but again, a simple chart or two could fix the way they present all this tidal wave information to me. Yikes! Oh, and one more thing...none of my new students know where Szerencs is. They all thought I was talking about the chocolate...in fact, they've never even heard of the town. I guess if I've taught them anything so far, it's about their own country's geography.

And so it begins...

Today was the first day of school. But I did not teach. However, because my flat is attached to the school, I could hear the opening ceremony occuring in the gym this morning.

 At first, I was disappointed that they didn't really tell me to come, but after I realized that the gym was packed with sweaty parents, teachers, and students, I was a little relieved. I was told that I should prepare some lessons for today, so Laura helped me plan some introductory lessons for grades 1-8 as no one told me which classes I would be teaching. "We don't have your schedule ready yet," they told me apologetically. I panicked a little, but kept in mind that this is Hungary and this is the way things work. 

Luckily, when things work this way, it's easier to get away with murder. Turns out, I didn't have to teach at all. I had come in overprepared in my ironed khakis and white button-up with a picture book of Chicago and all of my lessons tucked into my black bag. I ended up getting my schedule, checking Internet, talking to some colleagues, and hearing contradictory advice, and then walking a few more feet back to my apartment without having taught.

Holiday turned Chaos on Szent István

On the 20th of August, Hungary celebrates Szent István with fireworks and an airshow. People of seemingly all countries show up to these events held over the Danube river.

Air show over the Danube

Last year, I was so impressed with the fireworks (their closeness, their brightness, and their visual effects on the eye) that I had to go again. This year, the day was humid, but I went to the airshow alone while waiting for my friends to come back into the city. I watched the Red Bull pilots swerve and swoop through inflatable obstacles protruding from the river and walked around people watching.

Later that evening, I met Harpswell and we headed out towards the bright bulbed Chain Bridge to get a good seat for some quality explosive viewing. The sky had tinges of blue storm sky in it, but we all thought that it would eventually go away. Our conversation was quick as we had been apart for most of the summer and so we passed the minutes before the fireworks eating giant pretzels and catching up.

Szent István Day fireworks

Soon enough, the streetlights went out, just like in the movie theatre after all the previews. And the introduction fireworks shot out from the bridge itself. People stood up to get a better look...there were oohs and ahhs...shiny tadpole fireworks, big glittering chandeliers, green, red, white...a raindrop.

I felt two or three and hoped that the fireworks would just burn up the precipitation. The wind started to pick up and the heavy tree branches started waving. About 30 seconds later...total downpour. And a collective scream from all the spectators watching from the bank. Harpswell and I suddenly laughed from the depths of our stomachs, doubling over with it. We were getting soaked and it was a warm rain. But the trees seemed to come alive with the wind and small debris took flight into my eyes, hair, and mouth. I couldn't look up at the fireworks anymore. We continued to laugh because we were drenched and there was nothing we could do about it.

The rain didn't let up and before we surrendered to go find shelter, I glanced up at the persistent fireworks show...sheets of sparkle blowing horizontally south down the river. The only thing you could make out of the bridge were its dull glowing bulbs in the shape of a bridge.

People seemed to go into emergency mode and started helping people back up the hill off of the riverbank. Everyone was wet and everyone was looking for shelter, thus there was not enough room. Even as we walked away from the chaos, we could hear the fireworks still going off. I guess no one could stop them. From the narrow cobblestoned streets, it sounded like the bridge itself had exploded. It must have been the acoustics.

The rain eventually let up, but Harpswell and I had a long way to walk home to my apartment in Obuda, another three bridges up the river. The HEV (public transportation that runs along the river) was jammed with people just like us. We decided to walk home. It took about an hour and a half. We passed guys in their boxers jumping up and down like kids in puddles, worried ambulances, massive trees that had been uprooted completely, and power lines down. When we did come home, it took some time to wash all of the twigs out of our hair and my eyes burned.

After emerging from the shower a little warmer and little more relaxed, I learned from another friend that the storm had killed four people and had injured another several hundred who were watching the show from boats. I believe that a few were killed from falling trees, the others I don't know, because we couldn't get the information on TV and the language barrier made me rely on other Hungarian speakers who didn't seem to know what really happened either.

It makes me stop for a minute to think that while Harpswell and I were carefree and laughing in a slightly scary situation, others were being injured by the elements.

I can safely say that this experience was exactly the opposite of last year's Szent Istvan day, even though I sat in the same place under the trees near the Chain Bridge.

Chapter VI - Arab Baths, Football, and Flamenco

This will be the final chapter of Spain (who really needs to hear about my journey home?)…believe me, there doesn’t need to be anymore, because this particular day was so jam packed with activity that it felt like three days all in one.

In the morning, the three of us headed off to the Arab baths. We had made an appointment a week earlier. Alicia had spotted the place, a somewhat hidden glass door off of the main square along a narrow street.

After spending a year in Hungary, I was no stranger to thermal baths, but this was something altogether different. Same concept: hot water intended to make you feel relaxed…but entirely different atmosphere. I borderline felt like a celebrity.

The three of us were really excited for the experience…
A half hour massage
An hour spent soaking in the different pools

I think Jon and Alicia needed it more than I did after finishing another year of law school and their courses in Madrid. As for me, I was fresh off two class trips in Hungary and had been leisurely lounging around Szerencs.

After escaping the stifling street heat of Madrid, I wasn’t sure I wanted to paddle around in steaming water, but as soon as Alicia and I entered the ladies locker room, all my doubts promptly evaporated.

I wouldn’t have even called it a locker room…it was more like a dressing parlor or a lounge or a salon for a princess. All the facilities were clean, nice, and there was more than enough space to change. One of the best things about this place was that the owners would only allow a certain amount of people into the baths at a time so that it would be quiet and you could become properly relaxed. Once changed, we walked down a dimly lit stone staircase into the bath chamber.

Tea lights lined the walkway to the pools. There was a cold pool, a warm pool, and last but not least…caliente!! (my favorite).

The three of us went to the warm bath and paddled around, sat, meditated, and did whatever else you do in a thermal bath. The décor was seemingly Turkish with tiny holes in the roof delivering “sun-light” and the Arabic arches gave us a peek into the next pool.

One of my favorite parts of this place was the tea room/ I need a break from the water area. There was even a tea spigot on the wall that, when turned, sprinkled warm tea into a paper cup. Wow. I was sitting with my tea on a wooden bench taking in the tea lights, the fountains, and the always soothing sound of moving water, when a woman came to take me to my massage.

I’ve never had a professional massage before, but I’m always up for something new. We had our massages in the same room at the same time and when we came out, we were all a little light headed…but in that overly relaxed way that you get after drinking tea, floating around in scorching water, and being massaged.

The only downfall was that we were booted outta there after our hour and a half was up. I purchased some herbal teas for contact teacher, Etelka, because she always raves about tea and I was looking for something appropriate and useful to give her. I decided that antioxidant tea from Spain was it.

From there, we did a 180 and decided to check out the World Cup match between Spain and (I think) Saudi Arabia on a huge screen in a square. The atmosphere was so heightened with energy and excitement and drunkenness and belligerence that I couldn’t quite process it all in my sleepy state. We walked amidst yellow and red dressed fans draped in the Spanish flag, faces painted, shouting, cheering. Fans climbed up concrete platforms from some really unstable ladders so that they could see the screen. We stayed for Spain’s one and only goal that would win it and then left to watch the rest of it in a calmer Mexican joint while eating nachos and drinking mojitos.

That night, we bought tickets to a flamenco show, which turned out to be a competition from groups around Europe. It was in an auditorium/theater like setting it only cost us six euro a piece!

There were about six performances. The first was traditional Spanish flamenco with men and women, and the following consisted of a contemporary French group, a few girls from the Netherlands, and some more from Spain. Some were dramatic and others were humorous. Nevertheless, six euro got us a lotta bang for our buck.

Alicia and Jon did a fantastic job of exposing me to a lot of Spain. I literally can’t believe how much we saw and did together in a week’s time. Before I knew it, we had reached our last night in Spain and I was sad to leave it and my friends as well.

We went to dinner at our sandwich place the next night with some law school friends of Alicia and Jon and then had some churros and hot chocolate afterwards. This has got to be one of the best after dinner sweet treats of all time. I’m not talking about watered down hot chocolate…I’m talking about thick, dark chocolate that doesn’t drip from your churro, but oozes from it instead.

There’s certainly something to be said for Madrid’s nightlife. The streets became more crowded than they were during the day. No more were the throngs of tourists, but the natives had come out to party.

And they were still out partying…or rather coming home when I trudged to the metro the next morning with my backpack to get to the airport that would take me back to Hungary.

Chapter V - Shakira and a Bullfighting Ring

Yeah, I realize it’s taking me quite a long time to finish this Spain trip, but as I’ve been sidetracked with flying back and forth across the Atlantic, it’s easy to put off. I’m doing it 1) for the sake of starting a job and finishing it, and 2) because my dream job is to be a travel writer and I want to practice…ha ha!

It was a particularly muggy afternoon in Madrid and I was sitting on a bench in Retiro Park reading “The English Patient.” I had bought myself a hot sandwich and a Cola Light in the city and brought it with me to the park. During my solo literary picnic, I received two messages on my phone. One was from Liz in Hungary, informing me that a bird had just pooped in her eye. This same incident had happened to me only a month earlier in Tokaj while she had been sitting next to me at a fountain. Two, was Alicia and Jon asking if I could meet them for a bite to eat before they headed off to the Shakira concert that night. Alicia and Jon had planned to go to this concert before they knew that I would be coming to Spain, so I had originally just planned to wander about that night.

We met at the popular little sandwich joint that serves a variety of miniature sandwiches for one euro a pop. The reason I say “popular” is because you’ve got to fight people off with a weapon of choice for a table on the sloping cobblestone alley. They hover like vultures, waiting for you to finish that last crumb, and then swoop down and go in for the kill (aka grabbing your table even amongst crumpled napkins, sticky splotches, and a small bowl containing the liquid leftovers of a handful of olives).

Anyhow, I decided to accompany my two friends to their concert on the metro. We arrived to the Plaza del Toros, a bullfighting ring in Madrid. Shakira would make her debut performance there that night. A half serious queue had snaked its way around the perimeters of the ring while groups of people wandered around cutting in “wherever whenever.” We thought it couldn’t hurt to see if anyone wanted to sell tickets to see if I could weasel my way in to enjoy the show. After all, I had spent half the spring semester in the comfort of my Szerencsi apartment trying to perfect the dance moves to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” on MTV Hits.

Almost immediately, a man on a bike pedaled up to us after hearing blurbs of English from our direction and offered his three extra tickets that he had to go retrieve from a building in forty minutes. It sounded a little weird, but we agreed. Next, a girl offered her ticket. We declined, because it wouldn’t be near Jon and Alicia’s seats. Then, another girl approached us in Spanish holding out a ticket after her friend had decided to bail on the concert. It was a ground floor ticket. All these offers were at face value and so eventually we did business and I was in!! So excited to go see Shakira so unexpectedly…in MADRID for that matter!! Alicia and Jon decided to desert their seats higher up in the ring and stand with me in the half moon around the stage, a place where bulls and matadors had done their traditional dance many times before.

It was cake getting in and before we could blink, we were part of the crowd. Women everywhere were equipped with fans of all colors, flicking them back and forth. It was hot, but we were all smiles. Spanish raced through the mass of people and I just observed, glancing at the upper deck in the ring where, Alicia pointed out, the king sat to watch. We stood waiting…and finally the curly haired Colombian made her appearance. The biggest Shakira fan in the world stood next to me (okay the next biggest, after Jon). He was well over six feet tall and well…husky. He screamed along every word with her in Spanish AND in English (when none of the other Spaniards could). Even though Shakira appears to be fairly explicit in her videos, she is actually very modest and a great dancer (seemingly one of a kind).

She ended with “Hips Don’t Lie” and we left soaked in sweat, lyrics and beats echoing in our heads. It was quite an authentic experience to hear the Spaniards clearly sing along in Spanish, when all I can do is mumble a few syllables from memorization.

The people of Madrid welcomed her as a hero and she recounted many memories of time spent in Retiro Park (thanks to Jon for translation). It was obvious she was excited to be there. It was definitely a concert to remember, partially because it was so unexpected, partially because it was in Madrid, Shakira, and a bullfighting ring.

Budapest's Re-Captivation

I arrived in Budapest today after a month vacation in Chicago with my parents. I thought re-entering the city for a second time would lose its charm a little, the shininess and the newness wearing off…but surprisingly the shininess remained in the sense that it was a familiar and unique shiny even though the newness was gone.

During my very first day in Budapest a little over a year ago now, my airport minibus driver couldn’t find my flat and dropped me off near a dark forest path and gestured for me to walk. I felt more like a prisoner than a tourist. I couldn’t communicate to him in Hungarian and he couldn’t communicate to me in English. Luckily, my saving grace appeared in a forest gap sitting on a stone seemingly waiting for me. This English speaking Hungarian helped carry my luggage down a hill through the forest to get me to my undisclosed flat.

Today, I wheeled my two enormous bags filled with books and clothes towards the minibus, hoping that I wouldn’t have a repeat encounter. This time, I knew where my new flat was…but again, the driver failed me and had trouble. I actually prided myself today on giving him directions in Hungarian, thus marking myself a notch up on the pole of progress. Even though I just said, “to the right” “to the left” “there it is!” I felt smugly pleased at the past year’s vocabulary acquisition.

After passing out for a few hours in my new apartment in Óbuda, I decided to go for a walk. The weather was wonderful, a cold drink of water after several days of unbearable heat in Chicago. So, I set out for Margaret Island and finally looped around on the lit up Chain Bridge walking riverside and winding in and out of little side streets. Interestingly, I still had that rush of excitement stop in my throat as I made my way through a maze of “ut’s and “utca’s.” I thought the novelty of my first year in Hungary would have grown a little tired, but it was, quite the contrary.

I wish I had had my camera with me. I looked back over my shoulder as the wind cooled my face and saw a fat, orange moon floating over the twinkling Chain Bridge. The river and sky took on the same majestic deep blue and the reflections of the city’s light in the water danced.

On my way home, I heard incessant drumming on Margaret Island and headed over to a tall stone wall, remnants of an old church. Behind the wall, drummers sat and went crazy drawing a small crowd of people who had been taking nighttime strolls on the island’s paths.
My Hungarian homecoming walk was very refreshing and much needed after all my circulation had given up on me after the ten hour flight over here.

Chapter IV - The Hidden Town of Toledo

It was kinda nice to navigate on my own and then meet up with Alicia and Jon afterwards to take a day trip. Some of their professors had recommended Toledo, a town that was actually only about a twenty-minute skip by train from Madrid. I had a grand old time pronouncing the name of this town because it doesn’t sound exactly like Toledo, Ohio. In Spain Spanish, some of the consonants take on a voiceless “th” sound, so I think it was “Toletho,” and I reveled in sounding somewhat Spanish. Although, I couldn’t gracefully pull of the Spaniard “Grathias” instead of “Gracias.”

We bantered at the train bar (the three of us always have quality banter) and before Alicia could finish her café con leche, we arrived in Toledo. We followed Jon towards a bus that drove us and jostled us shakily up a huge hill through the town. We glimpsed out our windows to see a magnificent stone bridge arching over a river. The landscape and buildings mostly took on earthy tones…desert earthy…beige, brown, tan, whatever you want to call it.

The three of us landed in a local café near a statue of Don Quixote. The atmosphere was medieval touristy if there can be such a thing. We had our breakfast pastries, coffees, tea and my massive appetite landed me a sandwich for breakfast. Then we moved on to see the biggest, grandest cathedral I have ever seen in my entire life. The interesting thing about Toledo is that it holds a cathedral, a synagogue, and a mosque all within its fairly small confines…which means that Christians, Jews, and Muslims all lived in holistic happiness together for several years. MLK Jr. would have just loved it.

It’s very difficult to describe the cathedral in an accurate, deserving way. There were several temples inside and the frescoes on the ceilings seemed as though they might come alive at night. There was so much detail put into this building of worship that I had to blink a few times to make sure it was real. Unfortunately, so much time has passed since I traveled to Spain, so it’s difficult to remember specific intricacies, however I do know that Alicia and I talked a little about religion there (how appropriate). Because I am not the most educated being out there on the subject of religion in any form, I like to hear everyone’s take on it. But she mostly taught me a little history and why it was so central to a community. It felt like we spent a decent chunk of time in the cathedral.

Next, we wandered outside onto the canopied streets of the town and marveled at the gigantic hanging lanterns, baskets of flowers, and what appeared to be garland, draped casually over ropes holding up the canvas canopy shading us from the sun. We had stumbled upon the cathedral so easily that we assumed it would be just as easy to find the synagogue and mosque. But is that ever what happens?? I don’t think I have to answer.
We didn’t have any problems finding souvenir shops, that’s for sure. Soon enough, we noticed that there were swords everywhere…to my delight. It was the perfect town to display several swords, some on the street, some bejeweled, some with a squiggly shaft, and some dangerously close to getting run over by a little speeding European car. There were times when we all had to flatten ourselves against the walls (James Bond style) to let a car through.

Most stores had tiny swords (about the size of pens) that were exact replicas of those that Charlemagne and Robinhood used. Suddenly, I was curious if there was a shop that still made swords in town. Jon asked a store owner and as it turned out, there was a tiny shop next door (the only surviving sword-making shop in town). We went in and admired the gallant weapons displayed on the walls. Some were cheaper than others. The authentic swords were branded with a Toledo insignia and required a lot more dough. The owner took us to the back of the store and we saw some swordwork in action (a man molding, whittling, or bending (can someone please tell me the right verb/sword jargon for this!!)) and the kiln or oven where the swords are solidified. Jon and Alicia got to chatting with the owner in Spanish as I wistfully gazed at the swords for sale on the wall wondering who would buy them and what I would do with one if I owned one. How would you even fit something like that into the décor of an average home? It would be a little out of place…that is…unless you owned a castle and your day job consisted of being a knight. Okay…enough of the tangents. Yes, Jon bought an authentic Toledo pocketknife, which was actually very heavy and came with a beautiful leather case. It made a great souvenir and was much easier to transport home than a sword.

The synagogue was also beautiful, but inevitably much different than the cathedral. It was less showy, simpler, and overall, just interesting for me to see. We didn’t spend much time there, because we were hungry and didn’t want to be swept over by a school group touring the museum section.

We cooled our heels at a Chinese restaurant boasting a very reasonable “comida” special. The air-conditioning was much needed and much appreciated. It’s interesting to see the combination of two cultures in a restaurant like this. The Chinese obviously have their own way of serving and presenting food, yet, in order to cater to Spanish customers they offer their own cuisine (maybe not authentic Chinese) in a Spanish way. But I guess this is how things are done all over the world. Alas, my mind wanders stupidly…

We prepared for the mosque, but had excessive trouble locating it. Most people pointed us in a certain direction, but all we did was loop around and around through the maze of narrow, canopied, flowered, peaceful streets of Toledo. It was getting hot again. Eventually, maybe a solid 20 minutes later, we found ourselves at the top of a hill and walked steadily down to a building that looked suspiciously like a mosque. I had never been in a mosque, so therefore I was extremely curious to check it out. The mosque was much smaller than I had imagined, but very worn through the ages. We walked into the mosque gardens to admire a nice view of Toledo and then decided to head back to the station to catch our train home.

On the way back, Alicia retrieved a few pistols for her brothers (yes, fake, but really cool) and I found a painting of Toledo’s buildings in a souvenir shop. We were ready to go.

Back to Madrid twenty minutes later on Spain’s smooth train system and the capital was starting to feel more and more like home.

Chapter III - Navigating Madrid on my Own

Being on my own and in Hungary for a year has made me much more confident and adventurous when I travel to new cities, so when Alicia and Jon had to attend their study sessions during the day, I set off, excited to see how I would get around Madrid alone.

My soul lives for the summer, warm weather, the sun and I didn’t want to be cooped up in an art museum or anyplace else indoors. That’s better saved for a wintry February Saturday.

So, I rode the metro (very efficient BTW) into the middle of the city equipped with my MP3 player, a Lonely Planet book with full map of Madrid, and my sunglasses. I know that most travel authorities advise against blocking out the native noises of a country/city with an I-Pod, CD player or what have you, but one of my favorite things to do in the entire world is traipse around a new city with my preferred tunes blasting. The louder the music, the faster I walk. So, I searched for the local Madrid stations on my MP3 player and found a few scratchy songs while I walked aimlessly into the June heat.

Finally, stopping to consult my guidebook, I decided to pay a visit to Retiro Park, Madrid’s massive park that loosely translates to “A Place to Relax.” It used to be an ex-king’s hunting ground and from the looks of it, even an endurance blessed wild cat or gazelle would be panting with exhaustion attempting to get from one side to the other. I couldn’t take in the whole park in one day, so I went back later on.

The park turned out to be the perfect way to spend an afternoon for me: outdoors in the sunshine with plenty of things to look at while listening to my music. There were fountains that spurted water into the sparkling sunlight, and hundreds of benches placed along avenues of gravel paths lined with enormous leafy trees.

I stopped to relax on a bench facing a huge lake with paddleboats and monuments. Tourists from many countries drifted along the path in front of me, but inevitably, if you sit in a place long enough, someone will come up to you. Mine was a Spanish-speaking man wanting to know where the pool was. And to my sudden relief, I could understand. “Pool” sounds just about the same in Spanish as it does in French and right there my time spent as a French major paid for itself (okay maybe a dime of what it cost, but those little victories are HUGE for me!) And even better, I remembered how to say, “I don’t know” from middle school Spanish.

I know that it’s kind of ridiculous to beat myself up for not understanding a native when they talk to you (the foreigner), but it really frustrates me when I have to resort to English…I’d rather pretend I’m mute or meanie who just ignores everyone than to give myself away as the tourist (although my shoes probably do that anyway).

I walked around the park and found:
a turtle pond
trees that looked like brains
stone lions guarding a tropical looking waterfall
a line of artistic photographs from around the world
LOTS of statues
A beautiful rose garden void of any people
A free public toilet (God Bless!)

And eventually, I got hungry and extremely fatigued, so I decided to hit up an outdoor café and refuel. I sat alone at a plastic green table and ordered a Cola light with my desired tortilla española. Unfortunately I couldn’t manage the entire exchange with my waiter in Spanish (which ridiculously made me feel like a failure) but the meal was great. However the pigeons (the ubiquitous bird of Europe and big cities everywhere) thought it would be good for them too and came dangerously close to my fork. Even as I swatted at them, they would come back winding around my feet and perching on the backs of the empty chairs surrounding me, desperately waiting for a crumb. Men with accordions started playing and later came to collect money in a paper cup. I briefly debated dumping some of my massive forint change in there, when I decided that would be cruel, so instead found it in my heart to sacrifice something less than a euro.

I spent most of my time in the park walking, listening to my music, exploring, and imagining what my life would be like if I were born and raised Spanish. If I lived in Madrid, would I still like the tortilla española as much as I did the week I was in Spain? Or would it just be like a plain old hot dog is to an American? Would I play tennis with my friends at this park sputtering out speedy Spanish? Maybe, maybe not…but I would for sure have a fan on me at all times, just like 99% of Spanish women.
I headed back to the metro as the sun got lower in the sky, recharged from my time alone. It’s good to explore a city on your own, because you really have to pay attention to where you’re going instead of relying on someone else to get you around. Also, you can do what you want, when you want…and everybody needs that sometimes.

From "The Real Madrid..." Chapter II - Weekend in Valencia

As Day One in Madrid came to a close after the sky had unveiled some pretty ominous storm clouds, Alicia, Jon, and I contemplated what to do for the weekend. They came up with the idea of Valencia, a coastal city on the Eastern coast of Spain, and I went along with it. The famous party island of Ibiza is some distance off the coast from Valencia.

The next morning, we woke up early and bought train tickets. Alicia had to remind me about the terrorist bombing that had occurred in the Madrid train station some time ago, but at a naïve glance, I couldn’t see anything out of place.

The train ride was about three hours, but the time flew and before we knew it, we had arrived to Valencia. The spontaneous way we decided to go there reminded me of my trip to Greece in December when Jeremy, Harpswell, and I used a guidebook to find a random place to go with a beach (aka Nafplio) knowing nothing about it, and it turning out to be an absolute gem. Valencia was the same way. None of us knew anything about it, but once we set eyes on the fabulously unique architecture of the train station, we knew that we wouldn’t be disappointed.

As soon as we found a place to stay (one of the first hotels I’ve stayed at in a while) we dropped our baggage and explored the city. It boasted a huge cathedral, an impressive bell tower, several street vendors, cafes, and an incredible chocolate shop (!), not to mention it was to host the Pope. We saw many yellow and white striped flags hanging from the windows of apartments in honor of his upcoming visit. At lunchtime we stopped for some Italian food and passed on the Spanish “comida” as most of them were too expensive. A good Spanish “comida” or lunch consists of an appetizer, a main course, and a dessert for about six or seven euro.

One of the things that made our traveling easier and more seamless was Jon’s superb knowledge of Spanish. He was far beyond functional language and took to striking up conversations with the locals. Consequently, I learned more about the language, which was great, because if I’ve learned one thing about myself this year, it’s that languages fascinate me. Anyway, because Jon learned Spanish in America, his Spanish is more Mexican than Spanish and apparently the Spaniards could sense his accent. Also, once we reached Valencia, he told us that the Valencians have their own regional dialect and some of them would give him “looks” when he didn’t speak it. Eventually, I learned that Spain doesn’t have a strong cohesive national identity because they pride themselves more within their regions. This is evident by the several dialects that are spoken throughout the country. To put it simply, Jon stated, “Spain is so regionalized that they have their own languages. It’s like saying, ‘I don’t speak Texas but I speak Dallas.’”

Eventually we made our way to the beach during the late afternoon. The best word for the Valencia beach was VAST. The water was warm and wavy! It was the first beach I’d been to in Europe this year that was actually temperature appropriate to swim in. We leaped over waves, dove through them and just enjoyed bobbing around in the water underneath the setting sun.

Taking the bus back towards our hotel, we were pretty famished and after telling Alicia and Jon that I wanted to try some authentic Spanish cuisine, we stopped at an outdoor table underneath the glowing energetic night light of Valencia. Jon explained some of the “tapas” that were sitting in a glass box to me and we ordered a variety of them including a Russian salad, some fried cheese, a dish of olives, and the ubiquitous tortilla española. Then we ordered some “paella” (I hope I spelled it right), a rice dish in a pan that usually has some kind of meat in it (i.e. chicken or seafood). I finally tried mussels after being strangely intimidated by them for a long time (we had some in our paella dish). Overall, I didn’t try enough variety of paella to be a comparative expert, but I must say that I do like the idea of “tapas,” or what we’d call starter dishes that come in small portions. They are popular among the night crowd, staving off hunger into the late hours.

The beach air and fulfilling meal left us a little drowsy, so we retreated to our hotel balcony for the night and just chatted, while observing, the well…interesting/amusing night activity on the pedestrian street below.

The next day, we attempted to set off early to log in enough time at the beach, although we got temporarily distracted by what Valencia had to offer. The first being a decadent little chocolate shop near the square exhibiting Valencia’s huge cathedral and bell tower. After listening to the different kinds of chocolate…chocolate with sun dried tomato, chocolate with rose…I was faintly reminded of Juliette Binoche’s sinful shop in the movie “Chocolat.” Needless to say, we didn’t leave empty-handed. After fueling up on fresh OJ (isn’t Valencia famous for their oranges?), tea/coffee, and a croissant drizzled with honey, we finally sampled our chocolate selection and pondered just why chocolate has such a significant effect on women.

Another much needed distraction of ours was a stop in a shop to get Jon some more sandals, because his were about to fall apart. So he settled on a pair of 4 euro yellow/navy flip flops a.k.a. Ming Feng Da’s (this was written on the side and bottom of his sandals). They were a simple pair of sandals, but they turned out to be the butt of several jokes throughout the rest of the trip. We even coined a “Ming Feng Da” phrase. If something was thought to be cheap, but turned out great in an unexpected way, we dubbed it “Ming Feng Da,” just like the cheap sandals that paid for themselves by the amount of jokes they created.

From there, we headed to the market. Let me just say that one of my favorite parts of visiting a new country is visiting their market. It is the essence of a culture and life. We all need food to survive and dropping into a food market allows you to witness a Spaniard purchasing the daily essentials for a traditional meal. It is sometimes more enjoyable to watch people at a market than say, at the airport. The place is bustling with activity, culinary aromas emanate from behind each booth creating a salivating-inducing effect, and the rainbowed columns of fruits and vegetables are a treat for the eyes.

We did have an agenda other than stepping in and partaking in the market’s sensory trip…we wanted to get a few staples for a beach picnic. We bought some cheese, some olives (for Alicia), a baguette, oranges, cherries, a really unique, fleshy fruit that I forgot the name of, and other things that I’ve forgotten. It was so refreshing to eat that much fruit again after being in the somewhat fruit-deficient country of Hungary (at least compared to Spain.)

Once we got to the beach, Alicia bought us some coconut slices from a man walking down near the shore selling them. We staked out an umbrella even though the sky had become overcast and dove into our…picnic. Afterwards, we flocked to the water and I believe we all de-aged about 5 years as the waves continued carry us around and surprise us from behind. The ocean water is great in bringing out the playful spirit. We watched silver fish leap out of the water, laughed, and talked. In the end, the only thing that dragged us out of the water was the fact that we had a train to catch that evening. So we hauled ourselves out, shampooed in the outdoor showers on the beach, dressed, and headed back to the train station.

On the way home, we all became strangely fascinated with the windmills (the tall, modern kind that have huge rotating blades) that dotted the Spanish landscape like evil soldiers. Alicia commented, “you just can’t trust them…they’re up to something.” We all agreed, especially in the light of dusk. They could have been excellent props for a thriller movie. On the other hand, we did see many fortresses snaking their way over hilltops and this inspired us to figure out where to go next on Alicia and Jon’s day off from law class.
We returned to Madrid late that night, a little more sun on our skin, and the beach air still in our veins…not to mention sand still in our hair.