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.