Hungarian Goulash

With five bags packed, an empty apartment and a rinsed-out piece of tupperware that I need to return to Barbara -- that random English-speaking grandmother of a woman here in Heves -- I can't help but reminisce.

What was this year?

...A year in Hungary...

292 days. 35 spent out of Hungary.
292 nights. 35 spent out of Hungary.

...teaching English...

And German, it turns out. Didn't see that one coming. So it goes. But again, I found myself not so much of a teacher, so very uncomfortable in demanding that others achieve, unwilling to control even just 45 minutes of their existence. I'm a facilitator. I gave kids the opportunity to learn, grow, practice. Some took wonderful advantage, others -- I hope -- might learn in retrospect to make the most of their chances, not a bad skill at all.

...a cast of characters...

Old Barbara. Super Gitta. Thanksgiving Elli. Peter English. Gaines. Zuper Zita. Pencil-Shop Zsofi. Liz and Janos. Dixie. German Peter. Tour-Guide Etelka. Frau Agi. Neighbor Erika. Smiling Betti. Tall Creepy Dude. Feri. Mariah. Anton and the Ukrainians. Harpswell. Old ladies on bikes. Herr Direktor. Kati. The lunch ladies. Great Gabor. Mister Hungarian. Brent. Well-Belted Eszter. Denis. The ladies in the disco. Kyle. Emily's lovers. Chad. Pretty Petra.

...set in the town of Heves...

Wow. A land I despised at times. So often it felt like nothing more than a collection of fences. But it became my friend. And honestly, that didn't start until I started hanging out at the disco with the students. So it goes.

...ten-thousand people...

Give or take. Most are reserved. I think most know my name. Still not sure what to think about the animosity between Hungarians and the Roma half of town.

...the Eotvos Jozsef Kozepiskola...

The absolute craziest thing I've ever seen in person, and somehow it still manages to function nearly seamlessly.

...and a wandering young man who likes to tell stories...

I earned more than a few stories here. And it was a privilege to share them. The CETP teachers have learned to groan when they hear my story voice coming. And those who watched closely might argue that I became obsessed with life as simply a story, caught in an ungrounded fiction of my own world and my own literature. Or maybe that's me, in my own world, just thinking too long and too hard and too lonesomely to make it anything other than just a theory.

I guess, in a way, all that this year was -- and all that it could have been -- is goulash.

Hungarian Goulash.