The Great Migration into Europe Saturday, September 5th

NOTE:  This is the shortened version of my original entry.  I strongly urge you

               all to read Nadia Ficara's entry at http://www.ushmm.org/

If anyone had told me when I arrived over a year ago that Hungary would be at the center of a refugee crisis, I would have scoffed.   But the nightly news showed a growing influx of people from the Middle East, South Asia and North Africa. Most of them stopped at Keleti pályaudvar, Budapest’s eastern station.   One of the teachers at my school told me about Migration Aid, a loosey-goosey volunteer group in Budapest that collects clothing, baby food, diapers, and groceries.  When I texted one volunteer, she said “Just come down and start handing out things or just play with the kids,” but I doubted I was capable of doing anything useful.

It’s hard for me not to empathize with Hungary – high school classes heavily stress the invasions throughout their history, especially the Ottoman invasion and occupation.  They are noticeable tense about the incoming Muslim migrants.   The government ordered a wall up near the Serbian border.  The irony that Hungary, the first country to take down its Cold War era fence, was now putting one up, was lost on no one.   

I went to a toy store and bought bubbles, coloring books, crayons and a soccer ball.  An hour later, exiting the Metro into Keleti, I could see that, compared to the previous week, there were fewer refugees, but a lot rubbish.   Cleaning crews were hosing down the area where about ten port-o-potties had been used by hundreds of migrants.   Migration Aid handed out clothing donated by many Hungarians – the sort of kindness that isn’t printed in the press. 

An art class for migrant children was led on the pavement and I showed one of the woman what I had and she said just go, find some others.  Soon I found a family of boys picking through clothing donations.  They lit up as I handed them a soccer ball and began to play in the same area where frustrated protestors had earlier denounced Victor Orban’s halt of migration.  Another family with two sons and a daughter told me they were from Iran.  I used the phrases that I knew in Farsi, and received smiles, one hug and a “Tank Yew”.  Their mother was relieved to have coloring books and crayons -- a distraction for her children.  A family of Iraqis and two boys from Afghanistan got the rest.  One boy in the middle of a station overpowered by the smell of body odor and urine, delightedly showed me he could blow bubbles again and again.

New arrivals came downstairs to get information and help.  We all were aware that next week the government would pass laws to crack down on further immigration.  Their actions the week before had had international consequences.  A train filled with refugees who thought they were going to Germany through Austria went "missing". The rail cars were decoupled in Bicske – a town where several of my students live and commute from (Hungary’s government had forgotten that we have a long memory about events when people are put on trains and disappear!).   Police tried to force them to disembark and register at a local camp.  If they were fingerprinted and registered in Bicske and then tried to move on to Germany, EU rules might compel them to be returned to Hungary, far less welcoming with far fewer opportunities.  Furious that they were tricked, the refugees protested and led a hunger strike.  Finally a massive march from Keleti to the border ensued, leaving behind a trail of refuse and things they were too tired to carry. 

I walked through the filth of the area many refugees slept in, amazed at the garbage piled next to the donations and few belongings they had brought with them.  Hungary itself has a problem with alcoholics and teens tossing plastic and glass bottles on the ground.  I am always picking up in my neighborhood and saying “Keep Hungary beautiful.”  Now Keleti was a mess.  Statements like “these new people are filthy” would confirm prejudices.

I found an open grocery store and bought some garbage bags – good heavy shiny black ones.  Focusing on family groups that had nothing to carry belongings in, I handed out one bag for their belongings and another to clean up the area around their children.  These people were idle.  They needed something to do during the long, frightening wait.  Amazingly, it worked.  Everyone wanted to keep their area clean or knew someone who needed help.   I chatted with those who spoke English, comforted and encouraged others, and laughed with those who had a black sense of humor like myself.

An Iraqi man asked for a couple of bags.  He was not a refugee, he was just helping.  He had heard my accent and asked me where I was from.  I told him New York, but NOT New York City.  He smiled, said he had lived in Toronto and said “You mean UPSTATE New York?!!”   I wanted to hug him for knowing the difference! 

Then a strong American woman’s voice interrupted to interview him, then she turned to me and apologized for breaking into our conversation.  She took my photo and I told her that I was teaching in Hungary and had just decided to help clean up the unsanitary conditions.   She told me that she worked with the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC.  Apparently, they were witnessing what was happening, who were potential victims, oppressors and helpers in this new world crisis. I was just a little proud.  For two entire seconds I basked in the glory of meeting her until another woman told me she need more bags.

Off I went again, until the part of Keleti I patrolled looked cleaner.  Soon the officials and other volunteers took over, their job made easier just by everything being in orderly piles.  The refugees felt better about having had something to do while they waited. 

I understand Hungarian fears and prejudices, stoked by the fires of the many tragic events in their history.  The world media covers what the government is doing and Hungarians are unfairly all painted with the same brush.  Yes, there are a large number of right wing extremists, but I witnessed so many Hungarians come out of nowhere and helped in Budapest and doubtless many other places, even handing out fruit to immigrants passing by.   The peace was kept -- for a brief moment.  

I returned via my usual train to Tata when it suddenly stopped a long time --  at Bicske.  Police escorted two dozen Asian men onto my car.  I watched the Hungarians blanch.  Even a pastor with his white collar looked uncomfortable.  Despite being intensely stared at, the men were very calm and appropriate.  For awhile I listened.  I knew the language wasn’t Arabic.  I thought they were going to the end of the line, but when my stop arrived, they piled out next to me.  I asked them where they were from.  They told me Bangladesh and I squealed that I have friends from Bangladesh. 

As I tried my Bengali, as bad as my Hungarian, I noticed about twenty policemen surround us.   A young policeman listened and asked me if he had heard correctly that they were Bangladeshis who spoke English.  I chatted until I saw his shoulders relax a bit and offered to pay for their tickets if there was a problem.  The policeman told me no, they had the papers to continue via a connecting train to Munich.  I looked up at the schedule and saw that indeed, the next train was to Germany.  They continued to surround us, watchful.  I said good luck and went up the station stairs.  At the top I hesitated.  I may have uttered a prayer.  I took out my camera and took a photograph of all of them.  The large group of police surrounding the Bengalis.  Just in case . . .

And then I took a breath, ran across the street, and grabbed my usual taxi ride to Tata.   

Photos from Keleti and Tatabanya

A Great Migration through Hungary: Long Version Draft

5  September 2015

Background: 

In 1990, I visited Hungary as a Fulbright Exchange Program teacher.  At the time, things were very uncertain (the Soviet Union’s communist system had not yet collapsed) and people were cautious about befriending Americans in the rural area east of Budapest that I lived in.  And the party called Fidesz was a new, young progressive party – not the firmly entrenched right wing party with a supermajority that changed the constitution to remain in power.  

After my retirement at Liverpool, I had wanted to teach the poor in India, but the heat of summer there was too much for me.  A year ago I took the position of English teacher through the Central European Teacher Placement program after completing the CELTA (a Cambridge English Language Teaching Certificate) in Budapest the previous year.   As a retired social studies teacher, I knew I was older and slower so I chose the intensive program’s three month part-time course .  It gave me the time to become reacquainted with Budapest and Hungary.   I thought that a quiet year in a relatively calm place like Central Europe would be just what I needed.  I was assigned to the sleepy, small town of Tata, popular with weekend tourists from Budapest, Munich and Vienna.  It is lovely and much like Ithaca, surrounded by lakes, hills and a few tourist attractions.  The area was once owned by the wealthy Eszterhazy family.  I now teach at a former Piarist school that now is a Gimnázium focusing on bilingual education. 

Saturday, September 5^th    I awoke in my simply furnished Soviet era flat feeling lazy.  I had stayed up until 1:30 AM playing Candy Crush Soda Saga, though I needed to go grocery shopping the next morning.  In Hungary, most shops close early on Saturday afternoon and almost all shops are closed on Sunday (especially in small towns like mine).   If I didn’t shop then, it would have to wait until next weekend or until I could get a lift to TESCO (Europe’s answer to Walmart).  I sighed. 

I headed to Ébresztő, my favorite café wearing a light poncho as it was raining.  I asked for my large, warm latte and a flaky croissant with jam.  As usual, I excitedly discussed in my poor Hungarian what color the jam should be.  I tell the barrista anything red is good, but today her face fell, so I said how about something orange.  This is what it is like to live in a country where you haven’t (and aren’t likely to) master the language.  This was met by a smile and a Hungarian “Yes, we have orange jam.”  I am sure this jam has a name.  I am sure I should call it lekvar (a thick fruit butter), not jam.  But this conversation is part of my daily routine to help me feel more connected to the world.  I blew on the beautiful pattern in my foam, sipped, and began to feel human.  And I began to consider another activity. 

One year ago, if anyone had told me that Hungary would be at the center of a refugee crisis, I would have scoffed.  Now the news showed the growing influx into Hungary – peoples from the Middle East, South Asia and North Africa – especially into Keleti pályaudvar, Budapest’s eastern station.   The week before I had stopped and given some sandwiches to one family, but really hadn’t done much other than talk to Migration Aid, a loosey- goosey all volunteer group in Budapest that collects clothing, baby food, diapers, groceries.  When I talked to a Hungarian woman in the group, she said to come down and start handing out things, give directions to those who speak English or German, or just play with the kids.  It was great to know there were Hungarians concerned with those squatting at the railway station with few supplies. 

Hungarian history classes heavily focus on the invasions throughout their history – especially the Ottoman invasion and occupation.  So they are noticeable tense about the incoming Muslim migrants.   A wall was going up south of one of my favorite cities – Szeged – near the Serbian border.  It wasn’t stopping anyone.   The irony that Hungary, the first country to take down its Cold War era fence, was now putting one up, was not lost on anyone. 

So, I finished my coffee and started to head out only for the barristas to shout “Melody, don’t forget your rain poncho!”  I meandered around Tata and finally went into a toy store and bought bubbles, coloring books, crayons and a soccer ball.  Just in case I decided to do the right thing.  Or give them to someone else someday. 

Ten minutes later I stood at the bus stop and debated.  I walked back to the bank and withdrew a little extra money.   Just as I came back to the bus stop, the sun broke through the rain clouds.  It was a sign.  I had to be a good person.  I just had to.  I got on the bus to Tatabanya  (think as Oswego is to Mexico) and then asked the ticket office for a ticket to Keleti.   The sales clerk tsk-tsked and looked and said Nem (No!) to Keleti.  I told her I would get off at Kelenfőld railway station and then take the Metro to Keleti.   Although Keleti was opened for the moment, I could tell she didn’t want me to arrive only to be told it had closed because another refugee drama might erupt.  So I decided to go first class.   Per usual, I hopped on the wrong train but got there anyhow.  I really should own stock shares in MAV (Hungarian rail) since I have paid so many fines for my confusion in Hungarian! 

As I exited the Metro escalator towards Keleti station, I could see that, compared to the previous week, there were fewer refugees.  But they had left behind rubbish.   Cleaning crews were hosing down the area where around ten port-o-potties had been set up for hundreds of migrants.  

I made my way to the open area around the corner from the Metro to the Migration Aid people.  They were handing out clothing donated by many Hungarians – this is typical of the Hungarians kindness that isn’t being printed in the press.  The volunteers looked tired and compassion fatigued – when you give and give until you feel hollow and empty inside.   I showed one woman what I had brought and she said just go, find some children and started coloring, or find some migrants who needed help and teach English. 

A large family of boys picked through the clothing donations.  They lit up as I handed them a soccer ball and began immediately to play in the same area where frustrated protestors had loudly denounced Victor Orban’s halt of migration into Austria and Germany.   Another family with two sons and a daughter, told me that they were from Iran.  I used the twenty or so phrases I knew in Farsi (well, maybe not all of them – my friends in college taught me some naughty ones I shouldn’t use with children!).  They gave me smiles, one hugged me and said “Tank Yew”.  Their mother looked happy that she didn’t have to focus on lifting their anxiety for awhile.  Another family of Iraqis and two boys from Afghanistan got the rest of my goodies.  One boy got a bottle of bubbles and, in the middle of a station overpowered by the smell of body odor and urine, delightedly showed me he could blow bubbles again and again.

An art class was being run on the concrete ground by Hungarian volunteers, and I led incoming refugees coming downstairs to Migration Aid so that they could begin to get help before the Hungarian government shut down everything again (as they apparently were about to do).  A group of men asked me for help getting shoes in good condition.  It was cold and they were in sandals.  I pointed them in the right direction.  It was beginning to be scary.  I now saw that the longer you stayed, the quicker you became a volunteer expert.  And this grandma is no expert in Hungary.  I walked through the filth of the covered area many refugees slept in.   I was amazed at the garbage right next to the new clothes and few belongings  that the refugees had brought with them. 

Many of my students live in a small town a half hour outside of Budapest called Bicske (pronounced BEECH-keh).  Thursday night, they had sent me instant messages.  There had been a rumour that Orban had loaded a group of refugees onto trains and that no one knew where the train had gone.  In European history, trains and disappearing people are not a good thing.  My students told me that their parents had sent them text messages not to get off at the Bicske station because there were protests.  The train had uncoupled two cars of refugees at Bicske and allowed the Europeans in the first car to continue on to Vienna. Police surrounded the cars and tried to force them to disembark and go to a camp to register.  If they were fingerprinted and registered at this camp then moved on to Germany, EU rules state that they might have to return to Hungary, far less welcoming with far fewer opportunities.  A protest had broken out and, furious that they were being tricked, the refugees protested and then led a hunger strike.  

 

My students received IM’s at the last minute saying they could get off the train as scheduled and their worried parents quickly picked them up and rushed them home.   They made it to school late the next day, but I could tell the situation was hard for them.  They tried to take photos of the refugee cars, but they weren’t close enough.  My brave students!  I told them that their town was now famous all over the world.  They giggled again and ran to class. 

Later that day, angry protestors and immigrants marched defiantly out of Bicske and Budapest, often causing traffic problems and slowing public transportation.  As they became exhausted walking west towards Austria, the ground became strewn with the items they could not longer carry.

That gave me a tiny grandma inspiration.  If there’s one thing that I always tell my students, it’s “Keep Tata beautiful.  Keep Hungary beautiful.”   I often model picking up the local park to set a good example for my students.  Now Keleti was a mess.  The often prejudiced attitude that “these people are filthy” would be confirmed as they left behind not only garbage, but the things they could not carry. 

Walking out of Keleti, I found a few of the tiny corner stores still opened.  After several tries,  I found a CBA grocery that had a massive pile of garbage bags – good heavy shiny black ones, not the green kind that rip that I use so often in Hungary.   I bought two rolls and began to go from group to group, focusing on the ones that had things (clothes, toys) with nothing to carry them in.  I told them to take one for the donations you have been given and take another to clean up the area around you and keep it clean for your children.  Soon I had to run back and buy two more rolls and then two more.  I was becoming the go-to lady for garbage bags.  Suddenly the single young men were coming to me to get some.  Now they wanted to keep their areas clean as well or knew someone who needed help.   Soon I was chatting to those that spoke English, comforting and encouraging those who needed it.  Sometimes all we could do was to laugh bitterly to ease the tension.

I was introducing myself to a large Iraqi man who asked for a couple of bags.  He told me he was volunteering, not a refugee.  He had heard my accent and asked me where I was from.  I told him New York, but NOT NEW YORK CITY.  He smiled and said he had lived in Toronto and said “You mean UPSTATE NEW YORK?!!”   I wanted to HUG this guy for knowing the difference!   He even knew where Mexico, New York was!

Suddenly I heard a strong American voice interrupt us.  A woman began to interview him.  Then she turned to me and apologized for breaking into our conversation.  “No problem,” I said.  She asked if she could take my photograph and I said sure, giving her my name, my hometown and why I was here in Hungary and volunteering.   I told her I had thought of bags to both clean up unsanitary conditions and to hold belongings.   She had walked and photographed the marchers the day before, but like me, she was older and only walked part of the way, coming back to see what was still happening in Budapest.

So, who was this woman?  She worked with the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC.  I told her how much I appreciated going through the museum the first time.  Apparently, they were witnessing what was happening, who were potential victims, oppressors and helpers.  I was just a little proud.  My name and photo with my Iraqi Toronto “neighbor” were going to go to a storage file somewhere, maybe even a research exhibit someday, about what was happening in this new Great Migration.  For two entire seconds I basked in glory until another woman told me she need more bags.  Off I went to the store again.   

I was running out of energy.  But the part of Keleti I patrolled near the metro looked much cleaner.  Now the officials and other volunteer cleaners were taking over, their job made easier just by everything being in orderly piles.  Maybe the refugees felt better about having something to do while they waited.  More refugees are expected this week, and the Hungarian government is probably going to put a kibosh on further migration through their nation. 

I understand Hungarian fears and prejudices.  They have been grown and stoked in the fires of the many tragic events in their history.  The world media covers what the government is doing and Hungarians are unfairly all painted with the same brush.  I witnessed so many young Hungarians, university students, housewives, homeschooling parents, church leaders, who came out of nowhere and helped in Szeged, Bicske, Budapest and doubtless many other places.  I recently saw a photo of a Hungarian woman standing by the road and handing out fruit and vegetables to the people who were marching to Austria. 

Migration Aid is completely volunteer and often very unorganized, but it helped to keep the peace at a time when tempers could flare completely out of control on either side.  I was very proud of all the Hungarians who helped, even by donating what little they often have.  Each donation added up to a lot of help before all the official agencies can pull it together and even begin to help.  They calmed fears and nerves on all sides.  They kept the peace for now.

As I left for home, I got another jolt of reality.  My usual train to Tatabanya/Tata was very full as it headed west.  Suddenly, it stopped at Bicske.  It stopped a long time.  Finally a large group of police escorted two dozen very dark Asian men onto my car on the train.  I watched the Hungarians blanch, even a pastor with his white collar looked uncomfortable.  The men, despite being intensely stared at, were very calm and appropriate.  For awhile I just listened to them talking.  I knew the language wasn’t Arabic.  I moved closer to them and the door.  I assumed that they were going to Győr at the end of the line.  But when my stop arrived, they all piled out with me.  I turned, smiled and asked them where they were from.  They told me Bangladesh!  I squealed – I have friends who went to university with me from Bangladesh!  As I tried my Bengali (as bad as my Hungarian), they smiled. 

I noticed that about twenty Hungarian policemen had surrounded the group (and me).   A younger policeman listened to our conversation and came up to me and asked me if he had heard me correctly that they were Bangladeshis and if they spoke English.   It felt rather intimidating to be surrounded by police, but I acted as if this sort of this was normal and chatted with him until I saw his shoulders relax a bit.  I then said that if there was a problem, I would pay for their tickets to go further west.  Another policeman told me it wasn’t a problem, they had some sort of paper that allowed them to continue to travel and were just waiting for a connecting train to Munich.  I looked up at the schedule and saw that indeed, the next train was to Germany.  The police continued to surround us, but not in a hostile way.  Just watchful.  I loudly said goodbye and good luck to the immigrants in English and Bengali and went up the stairs to the station. 

I hesitated and stood at the top of the stairs and watched.  A long time.  I may have uttered a prayer.  I took out my camera and took a photograph of all of them.  The large group of police surrounding the non-confrontational Bengalis.  Just in case. 

And then I took a breath, ran across the street, and asked my favorite taxi driver for a ride to Tata. 

Note:  I am very aware that none of the peoples that I met were actually from Syria.  I am very concerned about the implications for Europe and migration patterns worldwide.    Also, please remember that what the government of Hungary does isn't necessarily what the people are doing.  

The Little Old Lady from Budagyöngye

It’s the little old lady from Budagyöngye
The little old lady from Budagyöngye
(Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go)
Has a pretty little flower bed of purple Ibolya
(Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go)
She pulls an old trolley to the CBA
After stopping all the traffic from ev’ry which way.

And everybody's saying that there's no one more ninja
Than the little old lady from Budagyöngye
She jumps off the tram for a palinka snoot
She's the terror from Mammut to Karoly Körút,
It's the little old lady from Budagyöngye

If she’s drivin’ her old Skoda don't try to choose her
(Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go)
You might drive a Beemer but you'll never lose her
(Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go)
Well, she's gonna get a ticket now sooner or later
'Cause she can't keep her foot off the accelerator

And everybody's saying that there's no one more ninja
Than the little old lady from Budagyöngye
She jumps off the tram for a palinka snoot
She's the terror from Mammut to Karoly Körút,

It's the little old lady from Budagyöngye

~Instrumental~
(Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go)
~Instrumental~
Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go
The guys come to race her from miles around
But she'll give 'em a length then she'll shut 'em down

And everybody's saying that there's nobody meaner
Than the little old lady from Budagyöngye
She jumps off the tram for a palinka snoot
She's the terror from Mammut to Karoly Körút,

It's the little old lady from Budagyöngye
(Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go
Nagyi go)
(Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go
Nagyi go)
Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go
Nagyi go
Go Nagyi, go Nagyi, go Nagyi go
Nagyi go

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.