The Ladies Go to School

As the girls beautied themselves after we woke up Friday morning, I had a feeling that it was going to be a sweet, sweet day. Cloudy skies, but at least it wasn’t raining.

We were standing in the teachers’ office at 8:00am when the bell rang, the girls were amazed at how little significance it played in the minute-by-minute operations of everyone in the school. First hour, which officially begins about five minutes after the bell rights, would be class 10C: home to 16 horny sixteen-year-old boys and four girls. Not a one of them is gifted in English or destined for much of an international lifestyle.

Visitors are awesome because they’re a two-week lesson plan. The actual visit, plus a class period of preparation the week before. The sophomores concocted a tri-fold plan to amuse Rachel and Margaret. A third of them (or really only a slicked-hair-boy named Tamas) would teach the girls elementary Hungarian. Another third would ask the girls pre-written questions. And the last group would offer them a little Who-Wants-To-Be-A-Millionaire action. In forints, a million is not quite as impressive an amount, I will make just a dash over a million forints over my time in Hungary.

As Tamas strode to the board, the lights went out. The girls were a little alarmed, but the kids and I motored through the distraction. Funny things happen in the second world. He wrote five words on the board, and made the girls pronounce each one, with plenty of help from the audience. Sör, iskola, egy, kettö, harom. The girls laughed at his priorities when the translations came up next to the foreign words: beer, school, one, two, three.

Strangely enough, the ladies struggled to pronounce "köszonöm szepan" when the lessons took a turn toward the more difficult "thank you very much."

When the bell rang, we were forced to make headlamp and torch jokes as we weaved through the darkened halls. We’d really never had this kind of power outage problem before, except when all the teachers were drinking around candles in the teachers’ office one night. But the girls were a bit skeptical. Under the cover of darkness, though, the gals were able to slide through the halls and escape the stares and remarks I’d promised.

We passed hordes of administrators flying about as we walked back toward the office. It turns out that the power problems came at a bad time, the school-leavers were scheduled to complete their information science final exams that morning. Information science requires computers. Computers require power. Agi was still hospitable enough, despite it all, to rope us aside, welcome the girls (through my translation service) and invite us for coffee just as soon as the power was restored.

Second hour, or rather a couple minutes after the start, we wandered up to 7A, the little class of TGIF-screamers. Threw the door open, they were all milling around as usual.

"Oh, they’re so little and cute!" Margaret said, surprised to find little dwarf-pupils in this Hungarian high school. They really are pretty much little wee-people, like an elementary-school-museum encased inside of a rough and tumble high school. We walked in, and it almost looked as if the girls were ready to pick them up and pet them.

And that’s when they charged us. Three of them. Seventh-grade boys. In unison. They screamed a blood-curdling war-call and lowered their heads to charge. As if Braveheart was their leader. Or inspired by Sparticus. Called to arms by Alexander the Great. Feet pounded toward us, little boys hurtling.

We leapt back in fear -- Margaret, Rachel and I -- as they drew their weapons. They aimed for the kill and fired with lethal accuracy. Blood-thirsty vengeance. These, after all, were the descendants of Attila the Hun.

Something wet seeped through my fingers. I envisioned my lifeblood draining away from a hole in my chest. I wondered if the three of us would be buried with honors here in little Heves.

I looked down at my own chest and the same moment the girls looked down at theirs. In shock. Damning Hungary. Mortified. A deep indigo stained the front of their tops.

Then it made sense. The deep indigo of invisible ink.

It wasn’t until we looked up again, still aghast, that we saw three little metal flasks -- yes, those kinds of flasks! -- sitting on little TGIF Kristian’s desk.

"Welcome to Hungary, ladies," I whispered under my breath, shaking my head, continually amazed for nine-months-running by Hungary. "Please note the invisible ink on your chests and the flasks on that little boys desk, then let’s go ahead and speak some English with these little folks!"

(7A was uneventful after the initial shock. Introductions, questions, etc, until Rachel decided it was imperative to sketch a moose on the board.)

The lights came back on during the break, and I toured the ladies through the school. They were amazed at the chaos, but I assured them that it all worked out somehow. They stood in disbelief at the singing in the halls, the music on the loudspeakers, the whole affair. They noticed the segregation. I think they probably agree with my mantra "interesting to observe."

(And after the power came back on, the ladies were able to hit up the internet in the teacher lounge. That’s when they began preaching the gospel of Facebook. I am beginning to show early signs of addiction.)

Fourth lesson was with 8A, my favorite little angels. We’d planned Jeopardy the week before. After learning what Jeopardy was (although they struggled with the whole "answer must be in the form of a question" concept) the kids wrote up five categories worth of answers: Football, Soap Operas, Famous Hungarian Cities, Cars and Stars.

Margaret, who can get a little feisty in a competitive setting, jumped out to an early lead. But these kids love the underdog, and quickly began to give Rachel covert assistance. By final jeopardy, Margaret had a sizable lead, but Rachel was within striking distance.

The category: The School. The girls placed their blind bets.

The answers? This is the name of the school you are sitting in. The girls scribbled their answers while I hummed.

Margaret unveiled her answer. "What is Joszef-famous Hungarian man?" The kids decided it was okay. She bet conservatively, but we added it onto her total.

Rachel was next. She looked uncertain. "Who is a famous Hungarian man?" The kids conferred, and the vote was unanimous: Rachel the underdog’s answer was okay! She bet the house, of course, and won.

Lunch was terrible. Little curled hunks of chicken liver swimming in a bowl of noodles. Even the soup was disastrous. The ladies were not impressed, and we set off for Eger by bus with crummies in our tummies, needing a second course. And we hadn’t even hit noon yet.