A Hungary Thanksgiving

Twenty-three years ago.  Rather harsh letter from Mum upset that I wasn't communicating/calling her more from the town that I was teaching in in Hungary.  My response?  To explain the process of placing a phone call:  

1. Dress warm and exit flat.  Walk 1.1 km and get ticket for the HÉV. 
2. Ride HÉV about 45 minutes to  Örs vezér tere
3. Walk a bit to the Metro.  Can't remember how far.  Few minutes plus time to buy ticket.
4.  Change Metro 2 to the classic Metro 1.  Deák tér to Vörösmarty tér.  OK OK, sometimes I just walked from Deák tér but I couldn't resist that old beautiful yellow line Metro.
5. Walk to the hotel that is now the Intercontinental.  
6. Maneuver past the gatekeepers and the concierge.  Try to look like I belonged there.
7. Wait in line at the international phone call operator's desk.
8. Fill out a form stating the phone number.
9. Operator stared hard and you wonder if she is about to go back with the Russian Army to Moscow.  
10. Operator places call.  
11. Operator tells you to go wait in a booth.
12. Operator connects the call.  The best damned line in BP. 
13. "Hello, Mom!" Mother complains about how rarely you call. 
14. Phone clicks constantly due either o the conflict between the urge to listen to this potential enemy of the people and the last few Soviet soldiers' urge to steal the last few copper wires for use at home.  
15. Call ends.  Return to the phone call lady and pay her for the call.
16. Walk past the concierge and gatekeepers.
17. Repeat as necessary. 

Placing a phone call today:

No need for that hour and a half trip -- everyone and their mother in Budapest has a mobile phone.  Hungarians can no more look up from their phones than Americans can, resulting in many bumps and bocsánats (sorrys). 

The Intercontinental is even more formidable.  There is now no centrally located large TV turned to CNN as the George Bush Senior Gulf War rages.  There is no state operator placing calls and listening in and reporting.  Now the NSA has taken on that role, thank you very much.  All in the name of watching us through data and metadata.  I take perverse enjoyment in the fact that by blogging the words NSA, CIA and metadata that I have wasted a blink of a nanosecond of time of some juggernaut of mad programming (these days the creators of such things are probably signing some pretty serious non-disclosure agreements).

Metadata and Me

I am a blip of little import in metadata, however, once again I will be "randomly selected" at Newark Airport for a free escorted trip downstairs to the oubliette.  They will separate each of us-- the German tourists, the sad young Iraqi man who makes the mistake of not admitting that his mommy packed his luggage thus making suspect all the sauces and spices and comestibles in large jars in his suitcases.

I will stand up to stretch and be told to sit down.  I will ask how much longer and will I miss my flight.  I will smile and turn to the Germans and wink as I say "Willkommen in Amerika".

I will single handedly waste so many resources and so many people's time because I typed words that made a flag go up in all that metadata.

The guy who monitors the cameras as they look for micro-expressions indicating the nervous and therefore suspicious;

the guard sitting at six o'clock behind us;

the guy who pulls my luggage out of the carousel and puzzled, must read my poems placed where he cannot miss them as he opens the suitcase;

the man who calls each of us up in an unfathomable order and after an eternity of waiting to talk to an official; the superiors sitting in offices behind the one way smoky glass in that large room; the waiting watchers and their unsmiling, unflinching grimness,

I will have a smile for all of you.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

Friday Night Frozen Pizza in Budapest

OK, so sometimes you are hungry and not really thinking.  I walked all the way home, unloaded my bag, went back down to Budagyongye with a shopping bag and at the grocery store saw -- FROZEN HUNGARIAN PIZZA!  This seemed like a good way to celebrate surviving a week at IH Budapest and even enjoying what I learned.  So, I LOAD UP my bag fulla (weak form) milk, bottled water, puffed rice, jam, bread, meats, cheeses, and one pizza.

I had just mastered my washing machine and felt I could handle the oven.

I couldn't.

I forgot that Fahrenheit ain't the degrees on the oven.

And this lovely, blackened work of art is the result.

In a way, I am proud.   It's about what I expect when I cook at my home in New York State. 

I Eat, therefore I Shop

Today was one of those days.  It all seemed so wonderful as I rolled out of my flat, early and eager to learn and teach.  I imagined that I would accomplish oodles of work and do it all perfectly.  But I began to make mistakes.  Small ones, then bigger ones.  I began to be so very hard on myself for each error.  By the end of the day I ran out of steam to complete my list of things to do living alone in Budapest. 

Note to self:  Be patient.   REMEMBER you are LEARNING!!

Part of my problem is getting used to the daily tasks that make up surviving in Hungary.  And missing I am missing my family and friends terribly. And, of course, the blueberry pancakes at the Queen Diner in Dryden.

Here is how I try to manage:    

1. Set out everything the night before.  I try to lay out my clothes and pack my backpack.  This usually involved internal arguments as to whether or not I need to carry that bloody heavy laptop, those bloody heavy books, and all the other bloody annoying things that I MIGHT need.  I rarely need it all.  But often they all go in.  
2. Decide what to shop for the next day.   What do I need, what can I live without and what was a waste of money the last time that I bought it.  I try to buy a few items each day (bread, milk, jam, cooking items) to make each trip up and down the hills of Buda worthwhile.  Yesterday I thought I could postpone the daily schlepping of groceries up the hill from Budagyongye (pretend the umlauts and diacriticals are all there) to my lovely but currently very cold flat.  I may have been influenced by my overdosing on Hungarian salami in all its forms.  So after my return from International House, I had to walk home, deposit the huge heavy backpack and then return down the hill for more bread, another brand of coffee (twenty two years ago there was often just one brand of anything), oil, salt, pepper, yogurt, cold cuts and of course, one of the many types of chocolate that they have in Europe.  I hope to try each one -- only because I wish to be an informed consumer, of course!
3. Stop if there is time at St. Janos Hospital tram stop.  The young guys there are now used to me trudging in, asking what this or that is and sitting next to their heater to finish my coffee.  If they aren't particularly busy (usually mid afternoon) they even write out words in Hungarian for me.  I suppose I could carry a dictionary with me, but since I have almost every other book possible, I prefer to learn as I go.   If I had LOTS AND LOTS of time, I might also get off at the stop where a huge picture of a French bulldog advertises "Kutya Mania" outside (it is a pet supply place).  Inside I found a lovely brindle Frenchie who laps up my attention and a couple who probably wonder who this mad woman is.  I also stalked an English bulldog three houses down from me, but he was only a visitor.  I wish I could borrow a dog and snuggle with him at night.  
4. At home, put on layers and layers of clothes.  The heat isn't on yet.  I would like it to be on, but heat is expensive and my landlord and his wife (who are wonderful) are concerned about the costs.  So far, I am toughing it out.  Today of course, I wore lots of layers and of course, it turned out to be a mild, beautiful autumn day.   
5. Set the alarm clock and my Hungarian Vodafone.  Hoping two alarms will awaken me from my early morning stupor.  As if the growling of motorists speeding to work doesn't.

There were some good moments today.  I got to observe Neil teach a long but excellent class and briefly met the lovely Hungarians who comprise that same class.  On Thursday, several of us newbies will be teaching.   I began to feel dizzy from the heat and stuffiness in the classroom and dived out to try to grab a burger (I KNOW.  I promised myself not to, but I was thinking junk food as comfort food might make me feel better).  To make a long story short, the fast food line was not fast and I was three minutes late for the start of the debriefing.  This of course pushed my nerves over the edge.  Tonight I sit looking through piles of scribbled notes and wonder what I was trying to say?  What did I mean?

This CELTA stuff is really intense.  I am going to need to concentrate on clear, simple notes and constant reading and re-reading of the packet they handed out to me.   Overall, I love my classmates and I am really learning a lot.  That was my point in trying the CELTA . . . to do something that I should have done long ago . . . learn a consistent, successful method of English instruction.

Now if they could only understand my funny accent.

Blessings to all of you reading this. 

  

IT'S WORKING

Yes, Yes, Yes!

I have wifi at home!

Still waiting to reward the worthy. 

Phone Companies X, Y and Z

Well, yesterday I spent four hours at the mall visiting well known western phone company Y (instead of less well known phone company X, which only allows me to call other people with X phones).  Why?  Because someone told me that I could use my tablet (which a tech person had removed my chip from) by getting a Company Y chip.  Yes. . . here it goes: 

STEP ONE:  get a ticket and wait in line thirty minutes.  Add ten minutes for seeking a person who speaks English.  In theory.  Show her your tablet, the chip that is out and ask if a new chip will allow me to use it.  Spend 6000 HUF ($30) to get a chip.  She installs it and says it works.  I walk outside.  The tablet doesn't work at all.  Strange Hungarian search engine appears.  Doesn't open.

STEP TWO:   get a ticket and wait in line thirty minutes.  Add ten minutes for English.  Two men ask me when I bought this chip.  I show them my papers and say ONE HOUR AGO.  I point to the girl and say Girl No. Five in Hungarian.  They mutter in Hungarian and pull things in and out of my tablet.  They open another tablet and put it beside my own so that they know what the English setting equivalents are.  This takes a long time.  They begin to sound like two Russian mobsters whispering about a future white slave.  They finally politely tell me to go to to some guys the next mall over (One of those computer kiosks in the mall hall  like our Verizon and T-Mobile companies).  They assure me that they can unlock my chip.  I begin to realize my error.  Regrets grow.    

STEP THREE:  walk to the next (connected) mall.  Go to the computer guy at the kiosk.  He is obviously the SMART COMPUTER GUY for everyone.  He looks at me in disbelief and asks me who sent me.  He tells me FIRMLY in English AND Hungarian it is NOT possible to unlock it.  This confirms the severity of my mistake. 

STEP FOUR:  walk back to Company Y.  LEAN OVER THE SIGN IN TOUCH SCREEN WITH MY ENTIRE BODY (especially boobs) to get attention.  The men from Step 3 are no longer anywhere to be found.  Finally I move, having mercy on the nice Hungarians behind me who probably wonder what the hell I am doing.  The girl who helps you print a number just laughs and hands me YET another number.   I still stand close to the sign in touch screen.  Finally the two guys realize they have to emerge and come back.  They tell me I can't have my money back.  I tell them that I want my money back.  They tell me impossible.   One tells me he doesn't even work for Company Y that he is from Company Z and just over here helping.  I tell him I don't care.  I tell him that HE told me that that girl spoke English.  The girl did NOT ask me if my tablet was locked or that she could not have it unlocked.  He said I should have a phone number with my tablet.  I said no phone number and that is irrelevant.  I said I told the young LADY NO FIVE that I only need the tablet for email skype and a bit of internet.  She said this would be possible if I paid for 1 GB charge plus card charge plus etc etc.  We are at a stalemate.  Finally, I say that I know they can resell this chip and that if they give me most of my money back, they can sell it to a friend and we both will be ok.  The die is cast.  After much mumbling, I am returned to GIRL NUMBER FIVE and she gives me a little more than half my money back. 

I figure it is a good enough solution for a woman who speaks almost no Hungarian.  Or, as the bank lady said within my earshot today -- this woman speaks absolutely no Hungarian.    :) 

Crossings DRAFT (1991)

This is a poem that written after I crossed the border from Hungary into Romania on the slow train -- not the famous Orient Express!  In 1990, my Hungarian friends warned me of the perils of visiting Romania for a holiday.  This was a land where, just after the execution of Nicholae Ceausescu, visiting foreigners were still assumed to be spies.  Stubbornly, I waited in a long line outside the Romanian embassy, passing forward my precious dollars and passport, to obtain the required visa.  After the rough border crossing I began to wonder if the Hungarians were correct:  perhaps a Western woman traveling alone was unsafe as thousands still fled westward.  And I did see the border fires of gypsies, of ethnic Hungarians, of ordinary Romanians.  One image of an actual caravan with a group of people round a campfire still warms my imagination. 

Crossings (1991)

Old

fat

babushka ladies –

maybe szekelys –

pack their petticoats

with

videosausages.

Brand new

Adidas

embracing and encasing their

already ample bosoms.

Not even

a carton of Marlboros

can mute the

luggage looting

by border guards. 

Rough hands

targeting

a dark, tense woman –

Triumphantly

find

her smuggled coffee. 

(Fines payable in forint or lei)

Young guards exchange grim for nervous expressions –

My passport sounds an alarm.

An American woman

inconceivably 

rides the local, alone. 

The conductor is gone

But for how long?
Til they reach an accord.  

Politely

they escort me away

my bag barely 

glanced at.

No Western eyes

will be allowed on board

to witness

the continued

appropriation

of innocent yet

undeclared

consumer goods . . .

Much later . . .

A lone chestnut is tossed back

to burn

on the

Rhythmic smoky fire. 

Seat lost

Perching on a backpack

In a stifling sea of

    sulfurous aisle dwellers.   

On the window

    waiting watchers

    are reflected.

Just beyond –

a fleeing bonfire

lights               

the edge of darkness. 

India was too hot for me so now I am in Budapest

• Goal 1:  to stay calm in a new place
• Goal 2:  to slow down and count my small successes
• Goal 3:  to be patient and ask for help and kindness from strangers :)

Oh, Lord give me patience! 

I had a rather dreary plane change in Zurich airport.  I found the dark, industrial modern architecture rather unattractive and the subway tile in the WC did not impress.  There was no one willing to change a small amount of money for a bloody coffee.  They sniffed at changing a five or ten dollar bill even to get a bottle of water.  I finally gave up and left with my thirst unslaked, happy to be flying on to Budapest. 

My arrival via Swiss Air seemed familiar some twenty-two years after my last departure from the old Ferihegy airport.   The baggage claim area looked familiar, although this time I found my luggage quickly (Long ago, my luggage did NOT come out off the carousel.  It was raining and the baggage handlers did not want to go back out to the tarmac and pick up the remaining luggage until it stopped.  I had to point out my luggage my crawling through the rubber flaps and gesturing in frustration.  I was surprised they didn't arrest e then.  Naja, it was Hungary in 1990!)   However, once again I could not obtain a luggage trolley without a Euro and accepted one from a kindly Hungarian woman who would not accept my dollars in return.

Quick trip to the clearly marked WC and I was through customs with no problem and followed the directions on the signs and floor.  The sign warned of the notoriously aggressive 'cowboy' taxicabs who try to grab your luggage and then rip off unsuspecting foreigners.  On the floor was a path CLEARLY MARKED (please pay attention, all other airports with such problems) to the shuttle minibus.  Next to the shuttle was a Kasse to change money and I immediately did so, asking for small bills.  I got a ticket for the shuttle and the young lady warned me that it might take 45 minutes for the next shuttle to arrive.  So meanwhile I asked an older Hungarian to help me use the pay phone and insert the correct forint (Kindness of strangers!).  Karoly answered the telephone quickly and I told him I was at the airport, waiting for the shuttle.  The call was cut short, or he hung up, not sure which, and I hoped he had gotten the point.  I then looked up and saw that my shuttle ticket was boarding -- it had arrived early!  I could only hope that he understood that I was on my way.

The shuttle drivers must be talented, because they deliver each person to their front door.  Most were going to hotels in Pest.  To my delight, the Swiss psychologist who had sat next to me on Swiss Air got on my shuttle and we continued out conversation.  She told me about her presentations at the Congress on Autism that she attends annually.  I told her stories about my favorite autistic students (including Asberger's, recently labelled autism spectrum) and as we rode through Pest, my memories slowly came back and I pointed out the Applied Arts Museum as my absolute favorite time in Hungary!

As it turned out, she and I were the last passengers on the shuttle, since we were going to Pest.  After she left, I felt nervous and adrift.  The driver had only a minor problem with my address, since it was on a diagonal.  But I saw a kindly woman my age waiting.  It was Karoly's wife, Erzsi.  She was overwhelmed with my luggage, but the Hungarian word for books came to me and I explained apologetically as we struggled into my lovely flat uphill from Budagyonge (I will put the umlauts in later!).  I insisted that we practice opening and locking the many gates and locks to get in and out of my flat (reminded me of New York City apartments!) and found that she had kindly left me some salami, brotchen, butter and mineral water.  Most important, instant coffee!!!!

After drinking some water and rehydrating, I had the energy to walk down to her flat.  A good idea, since the road continued downhill but the names changed slightly.  I simply reminded my jetlagged self, follow the tram and rail lines downhill.  She proceeded to introduce me to delicious homemade wine and I was delighted to find out her husband, like me, was a retired second (or third) careerer and worked at my favoritate museum! Iparmuveszeti Muzeum!

I tried their delicious homemade wine as Karoly, her husband, arrived.  I foolishly drank a lot of wine, it was soooo delicious.  We chatted and he walked me down to my tram stop at Budagyonge that I would take to Szell Kalman Ter each day.  I discovered a small abc/cba grocery there (the one he pointed out to me I still haven't found, due to my intoxication!) and a McDonalds.  The days of the one McD's at Nyugati are over!

Karoly is a kind man, warm and friendly and loved my interest in his museum.  They were surprised that I knew a bit about Hungary from long ago.  He worked in the pharmaceutical industry for three decades and now is trying to survive on his small investments and pension (sounds familiar!) and is now working in the field he loves -- photography!  His photos are shown in galleries in Hungary, Finland and elsewhere. 

The flat they have rented to me is their son's.  Like many young Hungarians, there is more work to be found outside the country than in.  He seeks a life in Finland with his girlfriend. Hungarian and Finnish are related languages and I remember they often have cultural exchanges.  The flat is lovely, in a beautiful neighborhood (although as usual the streets have a bit of garbage, empties, and dozing alcoholics. 


   

May 2013 108 ° Fahrenheit

The heat, jet lag, culture shock and the incredible heat of Rajasthan.  I confidently expected to adjust to as a volunteer in the village but now I must postpone involuntarily all work as my senses and my entire body are assaulted by the heat.  I simply cannot rise out of the uncomfortable bed and am left breathless and broken.

But I marvel at the people who labor everyday in the fields and cities of Rajasthan, dealing with a climate that would cause complete physical collapse to our American athletes, so well conditioned but often trained under the most perfect and comfortable of conditions.  Imagine the Olympics in Rajasthan.  Rajasthanis would win any game of endurance.

I am breaking but not yet broken.  Sam's assistant, Narendra fixes me breakfast and shows me his beautiful fiance on his phone while working feverishly on the computer in the volunteer room..  Sam -- Dr. Samvit Audichya -- takes me and the other, younger volunteers and visitors out to eat each evening, patient and positive.  We ride in his jeep, bumpy but safe and strong as we negotiate animals, motorcycles, tuk tuks, carts and weddings often in the middle of the street.  He gently takes us to beautiful areas outside of the touristy areas, often we are the only Westerners and the children run up to us and ask to trade a rupee for any American coins.  Sadly I left them on the table at the Hotel Saptagiri in Delhi, because their weight was so great.  

It's too darned hot!

I am in Udaipur for the third day and the heat continues to make Dante's Inferno seem like a ski holiday.  I am too hot to move, to blog, to do much of anything.  I am supposed to go shopping, but I don't see that happening either.  Tuesday it goes up to 108 degrees Fahrenheit.  Oh, god.

Day 1: I arrive in India

Well, I was pleasantly surprised when the flight from JFK to Delhi was on time.  Everything went smoothly until I arrived and went through customs.  No one was there from my hotel.  Meanwhile, Rick was getting calls from my travel agent saying they were looking for me.  I did not see a sign with my name on it, so we must have missed each other.  I just didn't feel like dealing with the touts.  Sure I was slightly ripped off by the price, but it was cheaper than a year ago, so it wasn't all bad.

The heat.  It was over  100 degrees Fahrenheit today, but it didn't feel like it, so I may have missed the worst of it today.  My hotel is a dusty, dirty place running along the conduit roads to from the airport.  The room itself is fine but three guys carried my luggage and tried for three separate tips.  I handed the tip to one and said split it.  The key had to be reprocessed to work, but now I am in my room hoping jet lag will not stress me too much tonight.  I got a bottle of water and a dreadful chai.  I will eat snacks until tomorrow.  Tomorrow I grab breakfast at Priyanka's place, with Praveer as well.  Thank god for facebook.  We got in touch that way. 

The street noise is loud, but I believe I can sleep through it.