Friday, April 28, 2006

Just Walking Down the Street

I ran into Zsofi today. She was my very first friend in Heves. From the pencil shop. We ate ice cream and I asked her questions. I clung to her English. I haven't seen her since.

It was good to see her. It was almost if Heves came full circle in that one moment. One American boy. Eight months in and out of a Hungarian village. I greeted her in Hungarian. I answered some of her questions in Hungarian.

She said I looked good, I looked happy. She was proud of the things I had learned. The words and the more important things, too. She was happy to hear that I had made friends.

It was almost as if Heves had come, in human form, to congratulate me. To say nice work, job well done, you have our permission to return home now.

Spring is wonderful here. Really, really good. After this weekend, just five more remain for me in Hungary. Wow. I try to make weekend plans, and all the last minutes hopes clog together. This weekend, though, it'll be backpacking with Thanksgiving Elli. Her first backpacking trip. Mine, too, at least in the Bukk National Park.

After finding so little time or motivation to write of late, I have so much to say. Just as the librarian is booting me it.

So it goes.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Students Rule

Diaknapok -- "student days" -- is a bit of a bribe. If the children are willing to come back to school after Easter, a bit early than any of us would really like, then the school administration is willing to give them full control of the school.

And, really, it worked so well that it should happen more often.

The centerpiece of the three-day-festival over April 19, 20 and 21 was an election. Not for president or student council, per se, but for one class to be able to proclaim themselves the best class in the whole darn school. Three classes 10A, 10B, and 11B threw their hats into the ring for the prize, the key to the school.

Wednesday and Thursday, the three classes had all day to win the votes of their schoolmates with random acts of kindness and campaigning. After seeing the country in full gear over April’s parliamentary election, it wasn’t easy to miss the similarity between adult and juvenile campaign tactics. Just like the whole country, little Heves High was plastered with stickers, posters and even spray paint, all enthusiastically endorsed by the school staff.

10A is a feisty group of kids. When subbing for another teacher, I sat through one of their planning sessions. It most closely resembled World War 3 in scope, scale and spirit. I sat in a corner, fearing the loss of life or limb, perhaps even my own. I rang my little orange bell every time more than one person spoke. I said, in English, "One at a time, please."

But by gametime, 10A had solidified their act. They sponsored amateur salsa dances in the hall, a short visit by a professional singer and the traditional Hungarian "roasting of chunks of fat above a fire like a s’more, then the delicate dripping of said material onto a piece of bread." I brought one of my two precious bags of marshmallows, unheard of here in Hungary and equally unobtainable. I thought it would be a good way to form a peace treaty with a class that doesn’t usually like me. Instead, everyone said the marshmallows sucked and lacked flavor. So it goes.

But I must give them credit for the highlight of their campaign, and chance to showcase their main man: Attila. On Wednesday, the first day back from break, they assembled a giant pyramid of boxes on the front terrace of the school. It was taller than a man and wider than a car. Everyone was left to wonder until Thursday.

At midday, just as the lunch bell rang, the 10A kids started banging on a large gong outside, drawing everyone’s attention to the courtyard. There, a city firefighter had covertly dumped gasoline on the boxes and had lit the backside. Schoolchildren jaws hit the ground as the flames leapt above the boxes, almost licking at the school.

From the front gate, a firetruck came blazing in. Two masked firefighters leapt out with the fire hose, one was shorter than the other. He aimed at the disintegrating pyramid and doused the fire, drawing heroic cheers. When the fire was out, he lifted the mask. It was Attila. He smiled, bowed, and shouted "Vote for 10A!" in the crazy language that they understand around here.

11B’s campaign tactics were mild in comparison. They simply offered room service for three days, darting in and out of classrooms to offer food and drink. Another day, they held a karaoke contest and an arm-wrestling tournament. They held beauty pageants and dancing contests in the gym. I was roped into both. I won the beauty contest, but not the dance-off. So it goes.

The winning class, though, were the kids of 10B. Their secret weapon? As simple as turning the school attic into the hippest spot in Heves for three days. A working bar, even if it was dry, and a subdued atmosphere carved out of a bland storage space. Snacks and a live deejay were served up during each ten minute break between lessons. Even after school, kids would linger in the "padlacs" café, and 10B would cater to their every move. I’m not gonna lie, I did conduct a class or two in the attic.

Friday was the capstone. No classes all day, and we didn’t have to show up until 8:45, so I moseyed (?) to school a little later than usual. Halfway there, I heard a strange pulsating. Vaguely rhythmic. As I got closer, I made out the sound. A marching band.

Like a Hungarian kid is drawn to the thump of disco music, I was pulled toward the sound of the band. As I rounded the corner, I saw an amazing sight. A parade in little Heves. Five majorettes. A ten-piece marching band. And all my 10A, 10B and 11B students.

I’m not modest. I walked straight into the middle of the pack like I belonged there. Struck up a conversation in German with Klaudia next to me, and began to wave.

Heves turned out for the parade, even without floats or candy. Moms and kids in strollers, old people walking around the town, everyone stopped to smile and wave. They closed the streets down for us, police officers safeguarding our slow crawl down the main street. There was a giant farm thresher behind us. I’m glad he saw the humor in the situation, otherwise we all could have been reaped. Needless to say, I was downright giddy walking in the middle of an Eastern European parade.

And Friday evening, the diakbal, a dinner and dance for kids interested in shelling out a couple hundred forints for a nice evening. All week Kriszti had been insisting, in German, that I dance with her and the other teachers on Friday. I would do any dance that Kriszti wanted me to and when I heard it was the Twist, I agreed double time. The afternoon before, I’d ripped her up from her seat in the crowd to be my partner when the children demanded that I enter the dance competition. I thought we were a good couple. The judges didn’t agree.

I didn’t even balk when she handed me a green skirt, polka dotted with all the colors of the rainbow. I had just enough cross-dressing over the course of six summers of camp for this to make sense, anything to make the students chuckle.

We snuck into the kitchen before the show, warming our bellies with liquor safely out of sight of the kids. In Hungary, I assure you, this is normal. We heard the Twist in the main room, and dashed on stage.

Safe to say, the kids roared when they saw me among the ten skirted ladies on stage. The ladies had given me a quick blush job, I’d pulled my increasingly long hair back with a rubber-band-headband, and Kriszti had lent me a red elastic top. My flip-flops broke at the first twist of the Twist, and I kicked them off to dance barefoot. When we took to the audience to find a dance partner, I asked Herr Direktor Kerek Laszlo. He seemed legitimately taken aback.

Quite the festival, student days, in a Hungarian high school. As I stood on a balcony overlooking one of the events between classes, I shook my head and started to think to myself. I’m rather embarrassed to admit the actual statement that first popped into my head.

"Wow, this is like a foreign country or something…"

Perhaps, folks, I’ve been here in Hungary for too long.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Zooming through Bosnia

Sometimes I get feedback on my stories. A lot of times, people like my stories. But sometimes people are like "uhh, you’re so dramatic!" Or "that was the longest story in the world."

Well folks, I've got a nice little story to tell today. About a time I stepped foot in Herzogovenia. This is a musical. It is an accurate re-telling of actual events that happened to actual people. The cast is five characters, including four friends driving through Bosnia:

Jeremy – a bumbling college professor who lectures in the form of Elvis songs

Janos – a revolving-assortment of 1990s Boy Bands

Kat – Hip-swaying Latin-sensation Shakira

Liz – Ageless diva Madonna

And a Bosnian police officer in blind-sighted pursuit of vengeful justice along the lines of Victor Hugo’s Javert

Scene 1 opens as a black rental car slows in anticipation of the border crossing.

Jeremy: Well folks, looks like we’re coming up to the Croatian-Bosnia border. Liz, want to hear a quote from my book? Maybe about the history of the break-up of Yugoslavia?

LIZ: TIME GOES BY (SO SLOWLY WHEN JEREMY TALKS)
Time goes by. So slowly.
Time goes by. So slowly.
Every little thing that Jeremy says or does
he's hung up / he's hung up on guidebooks
Listening to his facts / Baby night and day
I'm fed up / I'm tired of listening to data
Time goes by so slowly for those who have to listen / No time to get away
Those who buy ear plugs seem to have all the fun
I lost mine / I don't know what to do
Kat and Janos: (In choral support) Time goes by. So slowly. Time goes by. So slowly.

Jeremy brushes his companions off with a wave. 

JEREMY: (YUGO'S) ALL SHOOK UP
Ah well, I bless my speedo / What's wrong with Tito?
His country's fallin' apart / like the wheels off a cart

and that's just the start
Yugo's all shook up!
Mm mm oh, oh, yeah, yeah!

Confederation was shaky and Serbia's weak
Slovenia decided it can stand on its own two feet
Croatia said they're next, wouldn't you know?

That's just the first blow
Yugo's all shook up!
Mm mm oh, oh, yeah, yeah!

Mace'donia said Bye! The UN said Hi!
Then little Kosovo 'cided to give it a try
But Slobodan said he loved it best
Wouldn't let it go if it cost him his death!

He grabbed for his pistol what a chill we got
Europe saw problems like a volcano that's hot
And that's when NATO involved.

with many bombs.
Yugo's all shook up
Mm mm oh, oh, yeah, yeah!

Redraw the maps, kids...all shook up!

Jeremy: Looks like we were waved through the border, guys! Let’s put the passports away and see what Bosnia has to offer.

All: (Pointing out the car window.) Ohh! Ahh!

Janos stands in the small car, as the others fade to the background. He sweeps his arms in wide sweeps as he sings.

JANOS: I DO (CHERISH BOSNIA)
All I am, all I'll be / Every country in this world
All that they'll ever need / Is in Bosnia
Shining with wealth / Full of beauty and smiling people
All their passion unfolding / to build a glorious place
And a thousand wonders / Seduce me 'cause I
I do...cherish Bosnia.
For the rest of my life / I won't see a better place
I will love you forever
From the depths of my soul / It's beyond my control
I've waited so long to say this to you
If you're asking do I love you, Bosnia...
I do

Jeremy: Uhh, friends, there’s a policeman with a stop sign in the middle of the road. What should I do?

KAT: WHENEVER, WHEREVER (YOU SEE A STOP SIGN, YOU MUST PULL OVER)
Whenever, wherever!
You see a stop sign, you must pull over!
The cops'll be there and you'll have fear, but that's the deal my dear!
They're angry, you're a pee-wee, You'll have to pay a large fee
Or you can speed away from here, that's the deal my dear

Jeremy pulls the car over. The Bosnian police officer approaches.

Policeman: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ ",Θα φορέσετε μια διαφορετική αλυσίδα.ValjeanΠροτού να πείτε μια άλλη λέξη.

Jeremy: Uhh, I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand you. No, nem, nicht, nahi, non, nyet Bosnian. Do you speak English? Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Beszel Magyarul? Aapko Hindi aati hai? Parlevous Francias? Hablos Espanol?

Police Officer: I most certainly speak none of those languages, but for the sake of the musical, allow me to break out into English.

POLICE OFFICER: THE CONFRONTATION
Police Officer: Jer'my...at last...we see each other plain. M'sieur le Tourist, you'll wear a different chain.
Jeremy: Before you say another word, Mister Bosnian Police Officer! Before you chain me up like a slave in a Bosnia jail, listen to me! There is an excuse for this. I'm a foreigner in a foreign land. I can't understand the signs, I don't know how fast to drive.
Police Officer: You must think me mad! I've hunted you from down the road. You were going 74 kilometers per hour in a 40 zone! A man like you can never change. A man, such as you.
Jeremy: I am warning you, police officer, I can't understand a word you speak!
Police Officer: You know nothing of Bosnia! We're a stronger country by far. 26 Euros is the price you'll pay, there is power in me yet. My race is not yet run!

[Jeremy breaks a chair and threatens the police officer with the broken piece.]

Jeremy: And this I swear to you, my friends.
Police Officer: There is no place for you to hide in Bosnia.
Jeremy: I will not pay a 26 Euro Bosnia speeding ticket.
Police Officer: Fine, mimum 16 Euro?
Jeremy: And I will not negotiate the price.
Jeremy & Police Officer: I swear to you, I will be in Bosnia!

[They fight, Jeremy knocks down the police officer and the friends escape.]

Curtains close on Scene 1. Scene 2 opens with four friends sitting in the car, a Bosnian police officer holding a small red stop sign standing outside the driver's window.

Janos: Jeremy! Wake up! Quit dreaming! The officer looks pissed!

Officer: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ!

Liz: Keep it together! I think he wants your registration papers.

Jeremy hands over the rental papers with a smile. A forced smile.

Officer: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ!

Kat: Maybe your drivers' license? Give him that.

Jeremy slips his Wisconsin drivers' license out of his wallet and hands it to be police officer. After one glance, he starts laughing through his four-toothed mouth. Everyone except Jeremy laughs and is quite relieved. The police officer makes another unintelligible comment, then waves his hand outward, motioning the driver to join him outside.

Jeremy: Well, uhh, I'm going to get out of the car now. See you guys later?

JEREMY: I CAN'T HELP IT (I'M UNDER DIRECT POLICE COMMAND)
Wise men say / only fools get out of the car in Bosnia
But I can’t help it / I'm under direct police command
Shall I disobey / I don't want to pay their fines
And I can’t help / fearing of la-and-mines.

Like the Nerena / flows surely to the Adriatic Sea
Darling so it goes / I'll spend the night in a jailcell 103
I must say goodbye / so take my hand
For I can’t help it / I'm under direct police command

Police officer manhandles Jeremy to his squad car. There, he gets out a little notebook like a gumshoe reporter. On it, he writes the number 40. He circles it.

Officer: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ!

Jeremy: Okay. 40.

Then he writes 74, frowns and crosses it off.

Officer: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ!

Jeremy: I see. 40 good. 74 bad. Sorry.

Officer: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ?

Jeremy: 40 good. 74 bad.

The officer scribbled a third number. 26. Behind it he scribed the internationally recognized euro symbol. He wanted 26 euros. 

POLICE OFFICER: BARS
There, out in the darkness, Jeremy is running
Fallen from grace, Fallen from grace
God be my witness I never shall yield
Till he pays a big fee For driving too speedily
He knows his way from the map Mine is the way of the speed trap
And those who follow the laws of this country will have no run-ins with me
And he drives as Michael Schumacher drives
The flame The sword!
Bars!! In Bosnian prison cells
Scarce to be broken Filling the darkness
With order and light He will have sentinels
Silent and sure Keeping watch in the night Keeping watch in the night
And if he drives as Schumacher drives he falls in flame!
And so it has been and so it is written In the country next to to paradise
That those who drive way to fast Must pay 26 Euros!
Lord let me find him That I may see him Safe behind bars
I will never rest Till then This I swear This I swear by Bosnian jail-cell bars!

The police car radio crackles to life as Jeremy and the police officer are "negotiating." The police officer races to the car in alarm, waving his partner near.

Officer: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ!

Jeremy: Umm, why are you handing my license and registration papers back to me?

Officer: επιτέλους,Βλέπουμε ο ένας τον άλλον σαφής` δήμαρχος LE του μ!

Jeremy: Wait, sir, why are you getting in the car? Why are you waving goodbye?

As the police car drives away, Shakira, Madonna and the new Wyclef Jean leap out of the car, bursting into the climatic grand finale of this 25-minute long musical opera.

FRIENDS: PIGS DON'T LIE (SHAKIRA, MADONNA AND WYCLEF)
Janos: Ladies riding in the back seat tonight No fighting, no fighting
We got the Refugees up in here No fighting, no fighting
Shakira, Shakira I never really knew that she could dance like this
She makes a man wants to speak Bosnian Como se llama, bonita, mi casa, su casa
Shakira, Shakira
Kat: Oh baby when you wave us on like that
You make a woman go mad So be wise and keep on Reading the signs of my body
And I'm on tonight You know the pigs don't lie And I'm starting to feel it's right
He's waving us on, no more tension Don't you see baby, this is perfection
Janos: Hey Girl, I can see his car is moving And it's driving down the road
And I didn't have the slightest idea Until I saw him get in and go
That we would make it through Bosnia alive
Nobody cannot ignore the way we are free to go, girl
And everything so unexpected - the way you right and left it
So you can keep on taking it I never really knew that Jeremy could negotiate like this
He makes a man want to speak Bosnian
Como se llama, bonita, mi casa, su casa Shakira, Shakira

The car drives down the road, all four friends singing "Feel the Love Generation" as the curtains fall. And so it came to pass, that we made it through Bosnia.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

All 'Bout Croatia

The ABCs of a Spring Break in Croatia

The stories of a spring break well-spent in the northern-half of the former Yugoslavia will be told alphabetically, chunked into a little tale or nugget of wisdom beginning with the letters A through Z. The grand finale, I promise you, will be good.

Adriatic Sea, The

I was a bit wimpy back in December. Kat and Harpswell both braved an icy Aegean Sea to be able to say, forevermore, that they swam on Christmas Eve Day. This time around, I wasn’t about to let anything keep me from the water! The Dalmatian Coast of the Adriatic is renowned as one of the most magnificent seashores of the world, ripe with islands, coves, and some of the bluest of blue waters. On our very last day in Croatia, driving back from Dubrovnik to Zagreb, Janos pulled the car over at a bend in the road that suited his taste. Tiptoeing through overgrown brush and some nagging doubts, we managed to find ourselves a deserted pebble beach and called it our own. The water was cold, the swimming was admittedly short. But the sun felt good. And yes, I was naked. I figure that’s the way you do it in Europe.

Bosnia

Croatia came out of the disintegration of Yugoslavia a winner, to say the least, holding dominion over a huge tract of amazing coast. The country stretches far down the Adriatic, oftentimes only a couple dozen kilometers wide, before the start of the Bosnia and Herzegovina border. But thanks to a little quirk of geopolitics, Croatia doesn’t have the entirety of the coast. Bosnia was given 20 km of seashore, just enough for one town -- and one navy base -- splitting Croatia into two parts. To drive between the two unequal halves of Croatia, you must drive through Bosnia.

Car Talk

I’d never driven in Europe before, and I was excited to give it a whirl. Roundabouts, autobahns, liberal passing policies -- I reckoned these parts are a driver’s paradise! We rented a car in Budapest without too much trouble. Unfortunately, the original quote, advise from Harpswell, blossomed from 25 USD a day to 70 Euros a day by the time we finally had a car. We picked up our big, long black beauty in Budapest, and Janos navigated through the city like a native. Because the ladies considered themselves inadequately trained in the art of stick-shift driving, all 2000kms behind the wheel were up to us boys. Kat had made a point to ask if the car had a CD player, but unfortunately they gave us the wrong answer. None of us brought CDs, even though it turned out we had a beautiful little CD player, so we were stuck with Balkan radio waves for all our musical needs. (Turns out that left us a little unsatisfied, it wasn’t quite "finom (delicious) for the ears.")

As for the actual driving? Stressful as shit!! I haven’t driven for 8 months, and it was a rough return. It’s hard to know the rules and expectations in a foreign country, where you know nothing other than numbers. And European drivers are jackasses. Tailgating and passing on blind turns are some of their favored hobbies. There’s a lot to look at, pay attention to, and learn, I wasn’t comfortable going as fast as the traffic demanded. Parking was always a headache and tolls were plentiful. The exception to stress was the Croatian autobahn system. Brand new, uncrowded, efficient, just a delight. But it must be said that traveling by car was really fast and very comfortable, and it let us be far more mobile than if we had gone by plane, train or bus. Plus, we didn’t have to plan beforehand, instead we could just get in the car and drive. After six days, though, it was a tremendous relief to hand her back to the rental company, without even the slightest scratch.

Default

Janos and Liz are dating, or something along those lines of hand-holding, so Kat and I found ourselves as a "default" pairing. We had a lot of fun on our day long walks together, exploring the nooks and crannies of Croatia. We usually didn’t run out of things to talk about, even if we tend to recycle the same topic over and over. And we always know when we’ve had enough of each other. Back in Greece, we perfected our traveling routine. I talked to everyone, find out if any of the guys have accents, and if they do, Kat becomes romantically attached to them. It’s a pretty slick operation we’ve got going, well-practiced. For those services, she trades advice that I usually fail to put to good use. Now that we’ve tackled the upper and lower Balkans together, it’s safe to say that Kat and I are legitimate traveling professionals. She’ll be staying in Budapest to teach again next year, I’ll have to come visit.

Emir

When I was in sixth-grade, our family hosted a high school boy from Yugoslavia. He lived with us because he didn’t get along well with his other host families, so my dad brought him home from school like a stray puppy. Like the rest of sixth-grade, it’s pretty uneventful in my recollection, although I remember being resentful that he made my room smell for a long time, a souvenir that lingered even after he went back home. We did not run into Emir during our travels in Croatia.

Finances

Croatia, it turns out, is more expensive than Greece. We spent way more money in six days than we had in eight days in Greece, we weren’t expecting to spend that much. We spent 88 USD per person for six nights of sleeping, not bad at all. But then we spent 217 USD per person for the car: rental fee, gas, parking and tolls. Pivo (beer) and food costs went untabulated. It’s probably better that way. When we arrived in Budapest, we all looked at our wallets and bank accounts and grimaced, hoping that the May pay day might be kind enough to hurry.

Getting Sidetracked with Cultural Questions

It took a while to find, but the Dubrovnik hostel treated us well. After the long drive into town, the nice terrace with plastic furniture was calling my name. Four new friends to meet and a beer were just the relaxation I needed on Easter Saturday. By sunset, more than a dozen hostellers had joined our table. Aussies, Germans, Italians, French, Norwegians and other Americans. The conversation was wonderful, even if it was dominated by the native English speakers.

I took to talking with Emma, a nice girl from Australia. We traded the stories of our adventures, she’s exploring southern Europe after completing a chef training back home. And then, a horrific thing happened: I got sidetracked with cultural questions. I was more interested in learning more about the foreign language education policies of an isolated island continent than, say, if she was single.
When I spun 180 degrees to introduce myself to the Norwegian girls, the same damn problem. Distracted by cultural inquiry. Neither was blonde, but that’s not an excuse. I forgot flirting in the name of asking about Norway and questioning why they had seamless American accents. So no good stories, but I can tell you that Norway has 4 million people and Australia has 20 million…

Height

Walking the streets of Croatia, you’re struck with a sense of panic. Shadows are cast down upon you. You must look up to make eye contact. The legs under skirts are loooooong. Croatia is a land of giants.
Men. Women. Children. They’re all way tall, to the point that we took to wondering if we had all shrunk on the car ride, rather than the people of one nation being this blatantly tall.

Intestines

Poor Liz had a horrible introduction to Croatia. It might have been the roast lamb (delicious-looking spits dot the rural roads every couple of miles) or perhaps water at the waterfalls, but something invaded her intestines our first night in Split. Janos won a "champion of the year" nomination for his early-morning toilet paper run when things in the bathroom got desperate. Unfortunately, someone else was up at 4:00am and stole our hard-earned parking spot. One positive was that the guest house had absolutely wonderful bathrooms, probably the best I’ve seen in this side of the world.

Jokes

Some of our favorite jokes from the trip? We giggled often at the notion of Ukrainian night trains, wondering how other teachers on a trip to Ukraine were fairing in a more "exotic" destination in a more "dubious" means of transportation. One time, Kat was silly enough to tell a boy "Can’t we just talk?" Then, she was silly enough to tell us about it. Safe to say, we failed to let the matter rest. We spent days in Dubrovnik laughing about a tyme machine (non-Wisconsinites read: ATM) that was, unsurprisingly enough, tall.

Kukoc, Toni

Toni Kukoc is Croatian. Toni Kukoc is tall. For years, Toni Kukoc won fame and glory as a member of the Chicago Bulls. Now he’s old and plays for the (a-hem) playoff-caliber Milwaukee Bucks. Every day, the Croatian newspaper has a picture of Toni Kukoc from the previous night, along with his stats.

Landmine Alert

In Wisconsin, there’s not much to worry about beyond stray deer hunters. In Colorado, it took a while to get used to the threat of bears. And in North Carolina, snakes were the problem du jour. Strangely, boars are the only thing you have to fear off the trail in Hungary. But in Croatia? Yup. Landmines.

Get this, mankind thought once upon a time that it would be a good idea to fight over things. To kill other humans in the name of gold, God, grace, gates, glory and greed. In that spirit of death and destruction, someone invented a bomb that you could plant, just like a seed. The fruit? Your brother, father, son, neighbor or maybe your enemy blows off his foot. Although, that’s only if he’s lucky. Not too long ago, the world awoke and said "Landmines are bad!" So they met in Ottawa, Canada, to declare that landmines would forever and evermore be forbidden. Simply too vile a tactic for civilization. Unfortunately, there are lots of pariah nations like China, Cuba, Iran, Iraq and Israel that failed to sign it. And there was one rather significant country that refused to sign the treaty, as well. They argued that they would get around to agreeing with the international community on the badness of landmines just as soon as their five-sided headquarters finds "alternatives to anti-personnel landmines." That totally makes sense, though, because the country in questioned is sandwiched between Canada and Mexico, two of the more war-mongering nations of the world. :-(

Magnificent, Simply Magnificent

Dubrovnik began as a bit of a fable. No one who we talked to had ever actually been to the walled "Pearl of the Adriatic," they’d all just "heard good things." It’s a long, if beautiful, four-hour drive from Split, but we’re proud to report back that it’s well worth the effort. The city, now home to 50,000 people, was once much larger, the capital of the Dubrovnik Republic. Five hundred years ago, it was one of the naval powers of the world, with embassies around the world. It even sent ships on voyages as far away as pre-colony America. But then an earthquake came in 1667, and as they like to say in Hungary, game over.

Beginning in the 8th century, the city built an amazing series of walls and fortresses that now ring the old town. Over 2km in circumference, the linked bastions helped fend off the Venetians and Turks, among others. A two-hour tour atop the city walls is one of the cultural highlights of the world. At every point, you overlook marble streets, 14th-century water systems that still work, kids playing football in small courtyards or 15th century monasteries. Or on the other side, the most wonderful blue you can imagine. And there are restaurants in the city to last a lifetime. Good place. Darn good place.

Not Half Bad, Either

Split, it’s safe to say, is one of the grandest retirement homes in the world! The port town of 200,000 began in AD 400 as a palace and fortress for Diocletian, the first Roman emperor to abdicate the throne. Set right along the Adriatic, at a spot where sulfur springs bubbling into the sea, Diocletian built himself a giant self-contained square compound. By 700, the palace had fallen into disrepair, and some Illiyan folk moved into it when the Slavs started attacking. They built their city inside the walls, intertwined with the old buildings. The result are the most amazing alleyways, all trodden with fine marble cobblestone. Wonderfully erratic architecture. The best irony, though? The mausoleum for Diocletian, one of the Roman Empire's harshest persecutors of Christians, was turned into one of the oldest Eastern European cathedrals. The bell-tower is a spectacular sight. Both on top and from a distance. The city is down-right hip. There must be a university somewhere the old town, the were a lot of beautiful young people, doing their best to prove Croatia chic and fully European. Lots of Americans out and about. We even managed to run into one of the other CETPs teacher by chance!

Omis

In Croatia, even the cities that aren't in the guidebooks prove to be amazing! One our way down to Plitvice Lakes National Park, we stumbled upon an amazing village -- Rastoke -- built on top of a cliff of waterfalls! Canals lined the houses and shops like sidewalks, and each building had it's own waterwheel, spun by the spring overflow. Amazing, but never mentioned in any guidebook, too far off the beaten path. And on the northward leg of our journey, we decided to stop in Omis for a much-needed dinner, only to find a delightful town. Just a block of the main street, tight alley ways and corridors were lined with cafes. Picturesque mountains rose up over the timeless buildings. A river of molten azure flowed through the heart of the town. Delightful

Powderkegs and Pivo

The Balkans have long been a powderkeg. Serbian nationalism sparked World War I. And Croatian nationalism triggered the break-up of the old Yugoslavia when "things started to happen here in Europe" in the late 80s and early 90s. We figured it would be a good to give our spring break trip an explosive keyword. Powderkeg it was. And pivo? Well, that means beer in Croatian!

Quite the Capital

Zagreb's a delightful city. It's compact and quaint. It makes you feel all 19th-century Austro-Hungarian on the inside. Which, if you haven't felt it, is a warm and fuzzy feeling, thanks to stately architecture and broad streets. Especially recommended are the city's bakeries and jaunts through the main square. A tribute to Zagreb's goodness? We drove into the city at 11:00pm with only the sketchiest of maps and managed to find our hostel without a single wrong turn or legitimate clue where to go. Liz has eagle eyes.

Republic of Ragusa


When Dubrovnik was doing it's thing back in the Medieval days, it went under the moniker "the Republic of Ragusa." Lots of other countries held dominion over it at various times, including the Venetians, French, Turks, Bosnians, Hungarians and Austrians, but it always had at least a bit of autonomy. Friendly Wikipedia claims that Ragusa was the first foreign government to recognize the fledgling United States of America in 1776. That's sweet stuff.

Since Roman Days

The territory of Croatia used to be the Roman territory of Dalmatia. I guess that's why it's called the Dalmatian coast these days. Then some folks who called themselves Croats came when the Roman empire collapsed. By the year 1100, the Croatians linked themselves with the Hungarians. They shared kings for quite some time. The Turks overran Hungary and Croatia not long after, so the Croats turned to the Austrians for help. Then WWI came and it all came unglued, before being globbed together as Yugoslavia. The land of the southern Slavs. That's the short version.

Together?

Croatia is not a member of the EU. The reason lies somewhere between Croatia being well-enough-off without the EU and the EU having concerns with Croatia's wartime behavior and negligence in cooperating with the post-war international tribunal. But they'll be there someday.

Uskrsni Popusti

Croatian for "Happy Easter."

Vales and Trails

There's some bizarre, bizarre landscape in Croatia and Bosnia. Alien. Martian. Not from this world. Weird, weird stuff. Go see it.

Waterfalls

And while you're at it, go see the Plitvice Lakes national park. You just stand there going, wow. How did this happen?

X-Rated

We started the trip with a fifth passenger. A gift from me to Janos. Her name was Titty McTitts. I cut her out of the front page of the newspaper. She hung on our rearview mirror, an incentive pulling us all the way to the Croatian coast. I’m not gonna lie, she’s a pretty girl. We smiled every day when we pulled her out of the glove box and wished her a good morning. We even started the trip by taking a picture of her. Because of the mirror, Janos’s smiling face is superimposed over hers. The other day, we got a text message from Liz: "Hi guys. So I brought my camera to my 6th grade class to take a picture of them. I passed it around so they could see. Oliver hit the next button, only to find Ms. Tits. Thanks Jer."

Yugoslavia

Who would have thought…Yugoslavia proves to be an awesome spring break destination! I didn’t learn that kind of stuff back in world geography class!

and Z... Top Secret until the Final Installment!

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Dober Dan!

GET YOURSELF TO CROATIA! AS SOON AS POSSIBLE! UNBELIEVABLE!

The water! The color! The blue skies! The mountains! The sea! The cobblestone! The city walls! The friendliness! The waterfalls! The merriment! The old men harmonizing to Croatian music in a tiny seafood restaurant!

Zesterdaz: Plitvice Lakes!

Todaz: Split!

Tomorrow: Dubrovnik!

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Powderkeg!


Doin' the happy dance! Doin' the happy dance! Why?

'Cause we're going to Croatia! We're going to Croatia!

Tomorrow Kat, Liz, Janos and I are packing into a rental car in Budapest. That's the tentative plan, at least. From there, we'll drive through the night to the northern-half of the former Yugoslavia. As usual, no solid plans, but this time we'll have a map!

We will drive through Zagreb, dunno if we'll stop. We might go to Istria, or we might go to Plintvicka Jezera. We might hit up Dubrovnik, or maybe we'll just go to Split. The funny thing that we're learning about Croatia is that whichever darn way you turn, you bump into amazing sights! The Adriatic Sea, azule waters and loads of history. Wow!

For six days, we will be champions! We will tame a region of the world better known as a powderkeg of world wars and the disintegration of multi-ethnic empires, and we will make it our Spring Break 2006 domain! Yee-hah!

Monday, April 10, 2006

Trail Review: Kekestetö-Sirok

Blue Bar Trail 
Kekestetö Tower to Sirok Train Station
20.4 km
7 hours at moderate pace

(All trail distances are quite unreliable estimations!)

First solo backpacking trip in this country -- or any other -- coincided with a weekend too beautiful to be spent sitting in a Budapest office taking the Foreign Service Exam. A little stir crazy after enough time spent in Heves for a while, I high-tailed it an hour and a half north to the Matra Hills. On clear days, you can see them from here. They taunt me.

Marching without a plan, map, compass or fire-igniting device (the first three were intentional voids, the latter was not), it turned out to be an awesome over-night. Many more trails to be explored in the hills, and I hope to take the Green Club that way sometime this spring. In case I went missing in the mountains, I left a note on my kitchen/living room/bedroom/dining room table offering a destination and expected return time of 6:00 pm Saturday evening. My muddy boots and I walked back into the door at 5:59 pm.

Kekesteto (Szanatorium) is a scenic and easy bus ride (45 minutes, 254 ft) from Gyöngyös, the Gateway of the Matra region. Another option is to take the narrow gauge railroad from Gyöngyös to Matrafured and hike any of the 5 trails to the summit. That choice would add an additional 600m elevation gain over an extra 6km.

Kekes summit, the highest point in Hungary at 1013m, offers a post office, tourist gift shops, a hotel and a restaurant. The dominant feature, seen from all direction for many kilometers, is a massive red and while television tower. During the winter, the summit doubles as a mini-ski hill. In early April, most buildings still had Christmas decorations and were closed on a Friday afternoon. Many people were climbing to the summit as a nice day hike.

Blue Bar trailhead is located east of the summit marker, just downhill of the TV tower. Coupled with the Yellow Bar trail in the beginning, the trail skirts past sanitarium buildings (the domain of a frightening German shepherd) before dropping from the peak through a dense forest. The uppermost hundred meters or so of elevation were still snow-covered on April 7th. Shaded portions of the next 100 meters of elevation also had lingering snowbanks.

No official word if camping is actually allowed or in any way regulated, but a level clearing, perhaps 1km below summit, offers a large possible campsite. As the trail continues, expansive views to the north open up from balds and crests. At 2km, a rocky top labeled disznokö (pig-stone) showed evidence of campfires.

Over the next kilometer, the trail weaves downhill. Be forewarned that Hungarian trail-builders have rejected the concept of switchbacks and prefer push their trails straight up and down long hillsides. The following kilometer of trail snakes through recently lumbered hillside and cross a logging road and wood piles. Cell phone reception on the trail is generally good, at least at the crests where I would stop and check. I did, however, get a text message welcoming me to Slovakia, so no guarantees.

At approximately 5km, there’s a nice level hilltop just above the trail. If you need a campsite or picnic spot, look for it on the left hand side just you pass a logging road with a checkered gate on your right hand side. Offers a shaded view of a pretty lake (Markazi-to) and a nuclear power plant. Ahh, powerplants and strip mines…what a view. (Strangely enough they don't ruin the wilderness experience at all.) One kilometer further, there is an established campsite with fire ring. Signs declare it to be site E4, but it looks seldom used.

Past the campsite, a private boundary forces the next 2 kilometers of trail to go straight up and then straight down a high crest. The top offers good views, the bottom features a cool pine forest and a deserted log cabin. Saw only one person on the trail, right before the cabin. He gave me rather inaccurate information in broken German. No sir, Sirok did not turn out to be two hours away and entirely downhill. Did see four deer.

There’s a beautiful bald and rocky summit close to the midpoint of the trail (10km). Untrampled valleys and hillsides stretch out before your eyes, and you can see the crest you’ve followed. The next four kilometers of the trail follow fenced property line, and while the views can be grand, the trailside scenery is less than spectacular. Trail seemed overgrown in some parts of the second half. But blazes are fresh and easy to follow.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

At 12km, there is a green barn sitting above a lumbered hillside that looks like it holds wild summer-time goulash weekends. Lack of switchbacks gets discouraging. So, too, does the number of recently-lumbered hillsides. Two kilometers later, after a long washed-out descent, there is a spring and reservoir, which seems to be one of the few dependable sources of water on the trail.

The trail begins to follow a broad logging road for quite a while after the spring. There is a nice established camp site, nestled at a junction with the Blue Dot trail, at 16km. The camp fire ring has nice benches and there is a lot of level ground. In April, though, much of the ground was soggy. The stagnant ponds didn’t look like good sources of water. Bring it from the spring as you pass.

A kilometer’s hike up a ridge line brings you back to grand views. Just before an impressive rock face, there is a level step, just below the trail, that would make a nice but dry campsite area. The next kilometer takes you down the crest, the final big hill of the trail, into a rather ugly recently-logged area. Boots got muddier in last 3km than rest of trail combined.

Once out of the hills, the final two kilometers of trail meander through nice mixed forests. A little stream flows next to the trail for some stretch, and even carves a nice gulch next to the trail at one point. After a little clearing and cabin next to the river, the trail cuts across a tall-grass prairie in search of the highway.

As the trail hits the road, turn left and hike along the shoulder. Blue Bar blazes will continue to guide you to the little train station, 400m. There, a little sign will confirm that you just marched 20.4km and a one-car train will take you back to Kal/Kapolna (30 minutes, 124 ft) at irregular intervals. Be prepared to wait.

There is no Saturday bus service from any of the bus stops along the highway by the train station. You might have better luck in the town of Sirok (2,500 people), 3km up the road. The city is best known for its scenic medieval castle perched on a ledge above the town. If you walk down the train tracks for 200m, you can catch a glimpse of the stone ruins in the distance. Eger is 26km away by bus, Kal is 35km away by train.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

No Proof of Petra Necessary

I met Petra’s grandparents at lunch Saturday. I was wearing a scarf. It’s not scarf-weather here in Heves, we’re in the midst of a delightful Hungarian spring. They must have though I am a bit odd, wearing a scarf during a noon-time meal and not speaking any Hungarian. Both of Petra’s grandparents were born not more than ten miles from here. I wonder if they’ve ever left.

We ate chicken soup with long, thin noodles, then turned to the main courses of wedding potatoes and beer-friend chicken. It was new to me, back home we only know how to beer-batter fish on Friday nights. Then Petra and I excused ourselves so that our two-party conversation, playfully uninhibited around the ears of non-English speakers, wouldn’t feel as awkward.

Things have progressed with Petra to the point where I actually know to say her name now. I must admit I still make mistakes, though, when I forget to concentrate. It’s "pet-tra," as opposed to the "pay-tra" that I had been saying for so long. Start out saying the word "pet," as if you were talking about a dog or cat, but then chop downwards with a rolled "r" and an almost-aspirated "a." No word yet, though, on whether the ending should be most exactly a "tra," "chtra" or "chra" sound. I figure just nailing the beginning syllable is battle enough.

We see each other once a week, sometimes twice. Our conversations have a relaxed comfort in them, but also a flirtatious energy. In a flash of domestication that makes me panic in retrospect, we opted to watch Dances with Wolves on TV Saturday night instead of going to the disco.

And truth be told, we also take pleasure in the warmth of the human kiss. We wondered and wandered, but it didn’t take us too long to realize that we are not exactly soul mates. Not much compatibility beyond language. Petra is like this whole damn country, in most regards. For example, she likes to discriminate more than she likes to recycle. I’m content to be the opposite. This one girl showcases the complete opposition I feel to Hungarian inclination big chunks of the time.

An example from just today. My neighbor Erika, a history teacher and the washer of my dirty laundry, yelled at me for filling up the garbage can. Over the weekend, I felt a primordial spring-time urge to clean up the litter on Deak Ferenc utca, the street I walk down every day in front of our house. It’s some sort of an answer to a divine discontent, a tangible way I can feel good about making the world a better place, if only for a moment. These Hungarians look at such altruism differently: it’s somebody else’s trash.

The little two-block stretch around my house yielded two bags of trash, which meant that Erika and the other gal who I share a wall with weren’t able to cram their garbage in. I delighted in the unfortunate humor that this complaint was filed by someone who mindlessly tosses recyclable plastic (big liter jugs!) into the trash can without a moment’s hesitation. That’s what’s filling the can up! The recyclables crying out desperately to be reduced, reused, recycled! Unfortunately, it turns out that Petra doesn’t recycle, either.

You crave another example, beyond environmentalism? A story. We were in Tokaj two weekends ago. Over a dozen American teachers crammed into a tiny wine cellar to sample the delightful whites of one of the world’s foremost stretches of vineyard. Kings, nobles, and poets have raved about the joys of Tokaj’s best for centuries, and here it was, in our little plastic cups. We had brought so many people into the wine cellar that they had run out of glass stemware.

The weekend that surrounded the wine was good, too. Jenna and Yerik are delightful hosts in Nyiregyhaza, just a short train ride from the hills of Tokaj.

Thanksgiving Elli lives in Nyiregyhaza, too, and she was in desperate need of some American friendship in her study-abroad-world. I was only too happy to provide that. It was fun to talk again and meet her host brother and Hungarian boyfriend. She confided that as much as her smile and friendship had meant to me at Thanksgiving -- the epicenter of my most difficult stage in Hungary -- that evening of introduction and intrigue was just as important to her. She was disappointed that I hadn’t asked for her number right then and there.

But 18-year-olds have curfews, and the rest of us went out when Elli went home. One girl met a Hungarian boy, one fended another off, and the rest of us went home after an uneventful evening. But on that walk home, we came across a drunk, a man-boy we had first met at the train station hours and hours ago.

His name was Szabolcs, he re-greeted us like long lost friends. In truth, we had been quite relieved when lost him and his friends at the train station. They were obnoxiously drunk, and their overly-friendly demeanor quickly turned harassing, even under the late afternoon sun.

Now, well past midnight, he was still somehow upright. He chased after us when we tried to covertly walk past. No such luck. He started to strike up a mumbled conversation, until he noticed my coat.

A left-over from March 15th, I still was wearing a red-white-and-green tricolor ribbon on my coat, the great common-denominator of all those celebrating Hungary’s history and patriotism two weeks previous. Etelka had given it to me. She and everyone else smiled when they saw that I was still wearing it, they would boast that I am more Hungarian than even the Hungarians.

Szabolcs, though, would have none of it. He grabbed it with his fingers, pulling at my coat. "No," he shrieked, in a jumbling combination of languages. "You’re a foreigner, you can’t wear that," I understood him to say.

Everyone else kept walking, but I was ready to argue the point. "I know what it means," I said, then offered a brief outline of Hungary’s 1848 history, hoping to impress the lad with a regurgitation of big English words. And yeah, I am proud of Hungary’s revolutions from afar. It’s not an easy thing to do, to stand up and die for your freedom from the rule of others.

He was sticking to his corporate line, though, whining "You not Hungarian!" That point is hard to argue. And as the confrontation progressed, he slowly slid into a desperation. He was like a confused bear, half crying and half nearly violent over a ribbon.

After debate, I tried walking. After walking, I tried running. He was still there. The issue wouldn’t solve itself. It wasn’t worth it, I handed him the ribbon. Who would want to boast Hungarian pride if this is what it looked like?

There are about 20 Americans that came to Hungary with me. We all have shared much of the same experience, but we all have our own take on it. Many, certainly more than I would have originally expected, have signed on with great gusto in the past month for year number two. I think my own personal truth is that Hungary and I aren’t permanently compatible. We look at the world differently, but it sure has been fun being here this year. I learned a lot, I felt new feelings, I was inspired to write, yada yada yada. Petra is Hungary. We aren’t compatible except in the shortest of time frames, we’re just different. But it’s fun sharing spring with someone. I learn a lot, I feel feelings, I write. The usual.

But matters of the heart, as they say, have consequences. And Friday night somebody not-named-Jeremy got a little carried away. I wasn’t worried at the time. And Saturday it was rather funny to have to wear a scarf sitting next to her at her family’s dinner table. But Sunday, though, when the necklace of note hadn’t begun to fade, I was a little more worried and a little more disgruntled.

At Camp Nan-A-Bo-Sho, I had the same problem once, the same reminder of a night well-spent on the side of my neck. At camp, as a general rule of thumb, problems are easier to solve. It took only a few minutes of brainstorming. I quickly declared that Sunday to be the start of Western week, donning a well-placed bandana over my neck and a bucket hat pulled lower over my eyes. There was a twinkle in Sara’s eye as we escaped the hot seat. The staff giggled all week, the kids were none the wiser, and we all managed to have good fun with cowboys that week.

But now I’m a teacher in a town of 10,000 folks. The young rock-star American who everyone in the town knows by first name And first name only, strangely enough. Elvis. Madonna. Jeremy. And here comes that guy, sauntering into school on Monday with, ahem, multiple deep-red marks, like a gaudy necklace strung haphazardly around my neck. Vörös, not piros. And bad, not good.

I went through multiple outfits Monday morning, trying to find anything that would offer a trace of cover for my debauchery. I refused to wear the scarf again and I plum forgot all my turtlenecks in childhood drawers back home. I settled on three vaguely collared shirts, all the collars propped at various angles skyward. Not well hidden, I marched off to school uncertain of how well my conceal and carry plan would work.

Within a minute of stepping into the school, I had my answer. It would not work at all. The pointing and starring, snide comments in a foreign tongue, began immediately. I had set myself up for possibly the worst day of teaching, the most embarrassing point, in my illustrious career.

I avoided any and all eye contact in the teachers’ office before the first lesson, then dashed off to the first class. A group of German-speaking ninth-graders. I was hopeful, trusting in their youthful innocence, but that faith was misplaced. Their jaws hit the floor immediately. I grimaced. But I managed to smile through the grimace.

After scrawling the word "hickey" on the board, I began to tell the kids a story. I told that same story to four other groups of kids that Monday, in whichever language they study. "I was thinking about you guys this weekend," I start, just as soon as I could get their attention.

"And I know that (insert the appropriate language here) lesson isn’t always that excited." They nod like they’ve never nodded before. "So I took to wondering, how can I make class more exciting for you guys this week?"

With a flourish, I present my idea: "I realized that if I got a hickey this weekend, you all would be tremendously fascinated, even captivated, and have something to talk about." That’s when I whip out the scarlet letters branded onto the sides of my neck. They gasp.

For a minute they bounce up and down in their seats, regardless of age, shouting "Ki?! Ki?! Ki?!" louder than Kat in a quiet Greek restaurant. It’s the question "who?" repeated over and over in Hungarian. It takes a while to simmer them to the point where I can give instructions over the sound of their voices.

"Take out a piece of paper and write two stories about how I wound up with red marks on my neck this weekend. Only one can involve a girl," I demand. For some reason, they listen this week. They’re mesmerized, whipping out paper and writing utensils like a grade depended on it.

For 20 minutes they create thoughts in English or German, pausing only to ask the past participle form of "suck" or if the present continuous form of "bite" has an "e" in it. Then, to giggles, they read their stories out loud.

As the last student closes the last syllable on their story, they all spin towards me and hush in eager anticipation. "I was reading a book this weekend," I begin, the same speed and tone I would use around a campfire. As if to prove the point, I show them the book in my hand. I had picked it off the shelf five minutes earlier. The title? The Throat.

"But you know that I’m not perfect in English, I don’t know every single word," I admit, to both English and German classes. "And I was confused by the title of the book, The Throat. I wasn’t sure what it meant." The kids look at me a little confused. Most of them know what throat means.

"So I got on my cell phone and called the best English student in the school, a girl named Gitta and asked her what throat means. She said she didn’t know, it was too hard of a word. She said I should call Bencsik Peter." Peter’s the most native of the non-native English teachers at our school.

"So I called Peter and asked him about the word throat," I continue. Most are still interested in the story, but I lose some in each class. "He said he’d never seen the word before, said he couldn’t be sure what it meant. He told me to call some Americans and ask."

"So I dialed up some American teachers here in Hungary. But none of them were any help, no one knew what the word throat meant. I was sad all weekend."

"When I came into school this morning, I was still sad. But your English teacher, (insert her name here), came up to me and asked why I was sad," I say. Whether their regular English teacher is the 50-year-old Etelka, the 40-year-old Kati, or the 30-year-old Csilla, the looming punchline still works to the children’s delight.

"I looked at your teacher and told her that I’m sad because I couldn’t figure out one silly English word, it was driving me crazy. The word throat." I tell the kids.

"Oh, that’s an easy word, your teacher told me," I say to the kids, building the joke to where it needs to be. "And that’s when she said I can teach it to you! And guys, that’s when she leaned into my neck and planted two long kisses on my neck and starts sucking my throat!"

The smart ones gasp, mortified. I don’t start to laugh and smack the book against the table in mock humor until after they’ve mostly finished the Hungarian translation for the slower kids. And that’s when I start to say "April Fools! April Fools!" I must say I’ve been lucky, almost all the time the bell has rung right on that cue.

And the other times? Well, I still consider myself lucky, getting away with hickeys as a lesson plan, woven so closely alongside April Fools day mayhem that most of the kids are left wondering if I just painted to red splotches on my neck for the fun of it. An April Fools joke on my neck.

And I guess that’ll leave you wondering if all of Petra, the whole damn story, is just an April Fools joke in my head.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Knocking on Petra's Door

Petra’s door was the third door I knocked on in Heves. It’s also the door I stayed behind the longest.

She lives four blocks away from me. But that’s just an approximation, they have funny irregular streets in these parts. Her house is green. From the street, the roof is long and low and straight, but from the side her house would look like the capital letter "A," with short, stubby, straight legs. Inside lives the Varro family. There’s a line over the "O," standing like a cowlick to elongate the verb sound.

She invited me over on a Thursday evening. She always comes home from university, three hours away, on Thursdays, thanks to her class-free Fridays. I can’t remember why I agreed, it’s a school night for me. But I walked over just after dark, causing great consternation amongst the neighborhood dogs.

I stepped inside as she opened the door widely. She was smiling widely, too. I planted two kisses on each of her cheeks and kicked my shoes off. She led me to the living room.

Introductions to people who don’t speak even a lick of English are fun. You can speak as quickly and as irreverently as you want. Petra’s parents fall into that category. She didn’t even bother translating, we relied on smiles rather than understanding to convey meaning.

She whisked me off to show me her room. When she was growing up, she had to share it with her older brother, the room was split in two with a curtain. Nowadays, it borders on spacious. Two desks, two love seats and a bed are sprinkled along the outside of the room, against the yellow walls.

I giggled at baby pictures, international in humor, but I could understand only a few of the book titles on the bookshelf. Her backpack, though, was full of books just like back home. She has read almost as much Shakespeare as I have in her English classes. But it seemed a bit foreign when her mom kept offering food a drink. First cake and juice. Then bottles (plurality intentional) of wine.

We talked for a long time, comfortably. Sooner or later, we found ourselves in a position where I felt the urge to offer a foot massage. Sarah Patschke taught me that trick of seduction a long time ago, and promised me that it would come in handy in the future. In this instance, it earned me a hastily-rubbed shoulder massage.

The play-by-play of how we actually came to be kissing is mostly trivial, but highlights the brand of sweet-hearted clumsiness I can’t seem to escape. I felt a bit like a safe-cracker, armed only with a bottle of wine, fingers willing to knead feet into happiness, and golden curls. I sat before the safe, spinning the dial until I found a combination, any combination that worked. In this one instance, it was the question, "Hey, do you know what ‘Spin the Bottle’ is?"

I left at 2. She snuck me out the bottom of the house, through the garage -- an underground railroad of dubious morality -- so we wouldn’t wake her parents.

Over the past seven months, I’ve become convinced that one of the favored exports of Hungary is its women. Americans arriving to spend a year in the country carry certain expectations, especially young men. And while we’re here, the Hungarians are rather adamant that we find a Hungarian girl to fall in love with and take back home. Or alternatively, a young lady so spectacular that we decide to stay forever.

And what enlightened visitor, who aims to be more an observer than a tourist, doesn’t have the aim of sampling the culture? I’m willing to take a liberal definition of that charge. Drowning the palate with Hungarian wines and spirits falls somewhere within an acceptable boundary, as does soaking the soul in flirtatious friendships with the girls.

Much can be said of the Hungarian womenfolk. Eastern Europe as a whole can claim pretty ones, and Hungary is no exception. And as an added bonus, they like to be looked at and appreciated. They dress accordingly. Even the students.

But I have to admit that one of my favorite things about the Hungarian girls falls outside of the realm of sexuality. Shocking. It’s even a bit paternalistic, a bit of confirmation that I’m a language-loving, story-telling teacher at heart. I love the way they create language.

Back in the School of Journalism, I never really understood the rampant critiques of the cliches that pepper our language. Aren't even tired, old sayings and expressions better at bringing words and language to life than nothing at all? But professors of every stripe would constantly lambaste the sayings and expressions that we use so often. They called them tired. Stagnant. Lifeless. I tried to weed them out, but it’s hard.

Hungary's a rather out of the way place to learn about English, but I've come to treasure the lessons that only those who know less than you can teach. These Hungarian folk, it is safe to say, know less English than you and I. But just as they don't know the vocabulary and tenses that we do, they don't know the bland expressions we take for granted when sharing our emotions, our feelings.

Over the past six months, but especially in the last month, I've amassed a cell phone full of numbers, a text message box full of SMSs, and an inbox full of emails from Hungarians. It's a really nice happiness to know that I built this out of scratch, combing the town many times over for people capable of communicating in English or German, the second-languages of choice. For most Americans, it’s hard to even contemplate, addressing yourself to someone else in a foreign language, a foreign way of thinking and constructing thoughts.

Now imagine yourself as one of those users of a second language. You have two choices, either mesh words together to try and convey what you mean or translate your own languages expressions word-for-word. Both create delightful twists of language that seem playful and freshly alive. You’re willing to overlook typos and mistakes when language is used with such exuberance. It’s cute to watch novices begin to experiment with the art of language.

Petra responded to an online card once with "Thank U very much for your felicitation." Uhhh, you're welcome?

But I think my favorite scrap of writing sample came the morning after I knocked on Petra’s door. I had to wake up early, on not too many hours of sleep, to teach 12-year-olds how to create thoughts in English. Most of the time it’s a losing battle. On this particular Friday, it was a song, a camp favorite, that had failed. Miserably.

I was a bit discouraged, more than usual, when I plopped myself in front of the staff computer. An e-mail from Petra made me smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Jewett!!! I think, it’s high time to get up. I am not relaxed at all, I’m terribly tired out, and it’s all your fault. Shame on you. But I had an awesome night with you, I must tell. And the way you kissed…ohhhhhhhhh. wonderful. But I don’t want to glorify you so much, otherwise you turn to be concident too much."

All in the name of sampling the culture and teaching English to the locals, folks.