Knock, Knock, Knockin' on the Doors of Heves

For seven months, I was confused. I always claimed, whenever anyone asked, that the folks around here were very friendly and welcoming. Isn’t that the way it needs to be in a little Hungarian town of 10,000? But it seemed like the outstretched hands reached out only in public. As soon as they disappeared into their homes, into their own worlds, the Hungarians forgot about me, left me to my books.

For seven months, I didn’t enter a single Hevesi home. I’ve been here since August, but not inside a single house. Not even once. No families, no living rooms, no kitchens, no dining rooms, ho hospitality, no home-made palinka, no chocolate chip cookies. But last week, for some reason, the dam burst.

Robi’s an 11th grader, one of my German students. He’s a nice boy, one of the most popular kids in the school. I’m always quick to accept his invitations to small class parties or birthday get-togethers.

One day, hunting for chicken breast to impress Petra, I ran into Robi and his mom. I asked her, through him, where I could find chicken meat. I was surprised when she answered back in German. She must have felt a little sorry for me, a little American boy looking for chicken abroad, so she had Robi invite me to a March 15th holiday dinner. I quickly accepted.

The Gottschalk family would be a bit unique by American standards. They are all proficient in a common foreign language: German. While my family could (in theory, mind you) invite a German, Latin, Norwegien, Italian, Hindi or Hungarian guest to dinner, there would be a lot of translating. Not more than one of us can speak any of those languages. But Robi’s mom, an elementary school teacher; his dad, a police officer; his older sister, a college student; and even his grandmother all speak conversant German.

In a notable example of self-progress, I am proud to report that I dug right into the meal, a big plate of turkey sauteed in fruit sauce served over rice with cranberries, apricots and various other fruit stuffs. It was de-li-cious, and hopefully proof of a burgeoning palate. And, I managed to hold my own in a two-hour German-only conversation. Not bad for a Kohlhoff-pupil.

That was the first Heves door I walked through.

The second was the Nagy family's door. Literally, the Big family. One day I opened the door to find only two kids in the classroom. It's not unusual, more usually pop out of the closet, as if they had fooled me for the one-hundredth-time. But this time, there were only two kids in class, everyone else was sick. I looked to the window and found my lesson plan, we would do a little spazieren gehen.

We bought sodas in glass bottles at a little bar next to the school. The kids rumor that the headmaster frequents the establishment, but that fact doesn't keep them away when the week turns to the weekend. We kept walking under the warm spring sun, until we came to Kinga's house. As an eighth-grader, she's taller than me and speaks better German. She was home sick, but we rang and stopped by for a visit. She didn't look very sick to me. Her mother gave us some nice sweets, then I took the healthy kids back to school.

The third door?

Petra's.