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.