Our Girl

Later I want to write a long post that combines my parent's visit to Hungary and our ribbon ball, but first I wanted to quickly write about Heves.

In of itself, it is not the most beautiful town in Hungary, nor is there lots to do. It has made the transition from Gyula, which is beautiful and active, really difficult. Some days I have struggled to find great things about Heves, and inevitably my mind wanders back to the bonfire on my name-day.

"People don't seem to like Heves because it is a great little city, but they like it because of the people" she said.

And this is entirely true. I really like the people here. Last week Eta, invited my parents to a wine tasting and then to her house. Her boundless joy and positive energy is wonderful. Judith and I communicate in English/german/hungarian, as we chat and she helps me with any questions I have. David, who runs the digital whiteboard room, occasionally plays electronic scrabble with me. Two of my private students tell me all the news I miss out on, such as the strike in Ferihegy. And Kitti and the rest of my neighbors. I give private lessons to Kitti from upstairs, because she wants to be able to improve her english for when she visits her daughter and grandchildren in England. We usually chat a little, and work through the book. She tells me about concerts, like the jazz concert that are coming to Heves, and sometimes brings me little cakes or sweets. Last night, she asked when I would be free to have dinner with the ladies in the building. She said that one of the neighbors had been asking about my plans, and if Kitti had seen "our girl"

And that summarizes it, our girl. The feeling of being included into the community. It is what makes Heves beautiful.

I've got good news and bad news...

This is the sentence with which I have been beginning all of my classes. This week 18 of my 22 classes were supposed to have a test, which due to my inability to print their tests, have been either outright canceled or pushed back to January. So instead we have been playing games and having discussion days. This has lead to slightly more mayhem than usual, but only slightly.
However the relaxed atmosphere of my classes has thrown the differing levels of respect into sharp relief.

My kids ask, and say things to me that I would have been too mortified to ask any of my teachers. For example, I now know that not imagining my expanding pudge, because my 9b asked if I was pregnant today. And one of my shy 12B students, who is actually really good in English, caught up with me on my way home, and asked me how old I am, if I have a boyfriend, and will I go to the ribbon ceremony on Friday. Wictor, who got extra homework for cussing in class, tried to wheedle it down as I passed him on my way home.

On the other hand, they are also extremely old-fashioned in their respect. They call out greetings, both in English if they can, and Csokolom (I kiss your hand), if they can not. At lunch, teachers usually cut the line, which I feel a little guilty about. Today one of my girl’s waited for me to get my cutlery and then motioned me before her. Another student Gabor, chased me down to hand me a slip of paper that had dropped out of my pocket. Telling one of my classes that I was going home for christmas, a look of panic came over their faces and one asked "when are you coming back?" After I assured them that I would be back in January, they looked relieved, and said "good."

Krampus

In Hungary not only does Santa Clause bring sweets on the 6th of December, but also his helpers are not the cute elves that the animated Christmas movies from the 50s have made iconic. Instead he is helped by the Krampus. This is, for all the No could understand little devils. They carry switches and give them to bad boys and girls.
In 10b, three of the No's most popular girls walked in on Friday wearing homemade devil horns. The No's curiosity caused her to throw over the lesson plan, cancel their test the following week, and spend the rest of the hour listening to her kids explain Krampus. They giggled a little at the concept that their teacher did not understand, and their explanations, which all 17 kids tried to do at once, were punctuated with drawing on the board, and the ever-present cries of Mit Csinalni? (What is going on?)
On Saturday evening I met a former colleague of my Father's for dinner, and his wife explained that Krampus in Austria was even more intense. That Santa and krampus came house to house, and Santa judged the child. The good children got toys and sweets, and the bad ones were put into a basket by the krampus and carted off. Added to this are the terrifying costumes of the Krampus, and I am glad that my childhood saw Santa’s helpers as little guys in pointed hats, who occasionally just wanted to be dentists.

No more Budapest

My Chariot....



Don't get is wrong, the No loves the captivating capital of the entrancing country in which she resides, but...

Of the last 5 days, the No has been in Budapest every single one, slept only one night in Heves, and managed to make all but two of her classes. How could she pull off the amazing feat of working in one city while being official bum on couch in the fourteenth district of Budapest? Easy, spend lots of money and lots of time on the bus. Between Thursday and Monday the No has spent 15 hours and 35 minutes on the Bus. (and this does not include public transport within Budapest itself....)

Why you may ask would any rational person choose to spend 15 + hours in 5 days on a bus traipsing through rural and into urban Hungary? The answer, simply put is people and panic.

Thursday the No was lured to Thanksgiving dinner, a stupendous blow out with more people than space.

Friday the No had to return home to teach. Alone in her flat, lonely and procrastinating cleaning said flat, she was lured back to the capital by bowling, movies, pancakes and museums. Truth be told, she should have known she was traveling too much, when her bus driver into Budapest (who happened to be the bus driver to Heves at 7 that morning) recognized her, and when she asked for a ticket, he gave her a look which all too clearly asked 'Really?'

Sunday saw the end of the fun, and the now second trip home from Budapest this week.

Monday's round trip was caused by panic. Forgotten by the No, her passport had only two spaces left for stamps. This caused a problem as she intends to visit Minnesota over winter break, but must return. However, the embassy (where they handily can take 10 minutes to sew in new pages), is only open from 1-4 Monday through Friday. Mondays of the B week coincided as the only time in which the No could make the round trip to the embassy and still make all of her classes.

The best parts of the insanity, where the calm and beautiful moments (none of which were on the bus):

The majesty of the parliament in the foggy-drizzly weather

Eating long craved after Mexican

Going to an American embassy, by herself for the first time in her life

Students waving goodbye on the bus

Buying pretty glasses in IKEA, so now the No can drink out of more than just coffee mugs

The new girth of her passport, ready for new stamps and new adventures

Friends with directions, on the phone

Turkey is for the birds

The No's heart pounded as she joyfully ran from class, out the door, out of school and onto the first bus out of Heves and to her second CETP Thanksgiving of the week. Jumping on the bus, bag and basket balanced precariously she reflected on the similarities of her baggage between this Thanksgiving trip to Budapest, and the one on Saturday to Ujszasz.

Saturday in Ujszasz was low key. Morning bus into Szolnok, where the No wandered the brand new and exciting AutoBusz station before meeting Emily and Tomi and catching a taxi for ujszasz. Margie, Jamie and Emily the major cooks of the lunch outshone themselves with an amazing feast. And the next day Tara and I ate bagels with Cream Cheese.

Thursday in Budapest was a tangle of maybe 45 Americans and Hungarians. Chatting, food, wine and occasionally dancing were also great but not particularity low key. Our hosts Ellen and Jake were warm and amazing as always. There were people the No had never met, and enjoyed meeting, in particular Angry Balint, and people she had not seen in a long time.

Like many Americans, the No ate too much, and has reflected on what she has been most thankful for this year. Dramatic and disastrous as it has been, with many small problems, one thing has remained constant and that is the love and support from her friends. This was never so evident as in Lauren and Lyla's post-T-day care of the No, who spent lots of Thanksgiving upset at the world. Even after her return to Heves, they checked up on her, and invited her back to BP for a relaxing and fun weekend, including renaming ourselves at bowling and tossing me my forgotten pan out of their third story window.

A Concetben

5:30 rolled around on a Monday night and in the middle of east Enders, my doorbell rang. It was one of my neighbors upstairs picking me up to go to a concert at the music school.

She introduced herself as Maria, and reminded me to shut off my lights, close my closet door and grab my jacket. We walked out into the pitch-black night, and there in front of the block of flats, was a tiny little car. My knees hit my chin as I squeezed myself into the front seat. Before I even had time to buckle up Maria, who by the way is well over 60, was off like a shot. Knees at my chin, and being pushed back against the seat by the velocity of our break neck speed, our conversation was stilted, mostly because I did not want to distract her, and restricted to my 6 or 7 pat phrases in Hungarian.

The concert was lovely, and the entire row I sat in consisted of more of my 60+-year-old neighbors, or as I am pretty sure I heard my private student, who had invited me, tell her director the “Kolozsvari crew.”

During one of the speeches by the Flutist the entire hall broke out into a beautiful folk song that showed off the pentatonic scale of the traditional Hungarian music. Throughout the concert, Maria would randomly turn to me and pat me on my thigh. Sometimes I think that there is a sign above my head that invites Hungarian-speaking women over a certain age to grab me. In Transylvania, my newly met elderly host mother walked home with her arm around my waist, and hand sliding around my lower back. One of the teachers at school routinely grabs and holds me by my waist whenever she wants to talk to me. Everywhere I go, I am petted and touched.

During this concert I also experienced what has been called the Hungarian clap. Simultaneous clapping in complete unison. It was a little bizarre.

Maria dropped me off at the front and went to park her car. I started making myself tea and changed into my jammies, when my doorbell rang. It was Maria, who jabbered something at me in rapid speed Hungarian. Seeing my lack of comprehension, she pushed past me, through my messy kitchen, and into my newly cleaned dining room and pointed out the window, repeating the word for rain.

I finally understood that she wanted me to take in my giant carpet, which I had flung over my balcony in an attempt to air it and get some of the dust out of it. The two of us struggled to pull my giant floor sized rug up from over my balcony and roll it back onto the floor. I thanked her, and she darted back out of my front door.

Happy Thoughts

There is a blog by Clare, called three beautiful things, that I love. Whenever I am homesick, grumpy or having problems in classes, her idea helps me put things in perspective.

Beautiful things so far-

Vivvi shouting 300 and waving a paper spear through the streets of Gyula

Tromping home grumpily to find a large bag of Nashi pears hanging on my door.

Being invited to folk dancing class

Jamie permitting herself to be my dressmaker's dummy, as I get people's opinions on a shirt I am altering.

Pumpkin pie for breakfast

Bagels with Cream cheese

My new green shirt/ dress

Being called Tanar-nennyi accidently be a seventh grader as he bolts out the door on Friday

Warm tea in Tranylvanian mugs

Unexpected dance partners

The sight of my principal pounding his non-existant beer belly in competition with the live band at Folk dancing class

Ticking new things off of my Culture shock bingo board

Playing activity

Really?

The Nő walked into a class full of very large and very loud eighteen year olds. She got stares and exclaimations of confusion as she crossed to the desk, thumped down her books and waited for silence, hands on hips. Slowly, some of the students realized that the crazy american teacher, was not in their room by mistake but in fact was teaching them.
Quick buzz around the room, cell phones confiscated, and notebooks out, the Nő set the class to work on answering some introduction questions, and write down their own questions for their new teacher. The Nő deftly feilded the normal "what are your favorite colours? and "where do you live?" questions, but stumbled over the "How long are you staying?" and "How many kids do you have?" and "Do you have a boyfriend?" The Nő doesn't remember ever asking her teachers these questions.

One kid tried to wheel and deal with his new teacher, offering assistance in exchange for a 5. Another student told his new teacher that Gábor was hot. The Nő giggled internally, as the mirror translation does not mean the same thing in english as it does in Hungarian. This was evident as Gabor replied with much indignation, that No he was not hot, he had a girlfriend.

Today in 9b, the Nő's imaginary friend Joe, had a so-so break, because he broke up with someone, but is hot, and has a new boyfriend.

Friday in 9d the kids discussed their breaks and made their teacher blush. Not for the first time has the Nő cursed her pink cheeks.

And in 11d...well they are another kettle of fish.

All in all, the new schedule will be just a busy, frustraiting, hectic, crazy and strange as usual. The Nő is glad to be back.

New Schedule, New Beginning

Monday morning I walked in to school refreshed from break, and excited to start the day, or at least see the other teachers. There sitting on my desk were three objects that I had not left there. One was a package from my fabulous mother, full of enough goodies that I will gain 200 pounds and have a diabetic shock if I eat it all.
The next was a letter from Austria, addressed not to me, but rather to the other non-Hungarian Briggi.
Finally on top was a small white slip of paper with my new school schedule. The return of two teachers has meant an entire overhaul of the daily plans. Not only are my classes in a completely new order, I have two entirely new classes. I look forward to another couple of weeks of getting lost, and trying to figure out how Week B has 23 classes, while Week A has only 21.
Coming back to school after a blissful two-week break, reminds me how much I appreciate and missed my kids. As crazy as they behave, and as much as they do not listen, forget their homework, and complain about working, it is all worth it. Helping even one student further their education, or understand something just a bit better, makes the bad days worth it.

Stuff we have done: (or holy cow, actual teaching stuff)

The monster mash: Used it as a listening exercise in two ways - as a cloze activity and as an action activity. Assign key words with an action, and when they occur in the song, students must make the action. This is better for younger students, highly energetic students and Saturday school.

The song/movie line dialogue: Another teacher from Szolnok suggested this activity, and so far it has worked really well. Have students write a line from a song or movie, and then collect them. Randomly hand them back to Students in groups and have them create a dialogue using these two lines.

Past Simple review dialogues: Asking students to discuss their break, write sentences on the board. Then circle irregular verbs and box regular endings to create visual difference, and go through regular and irregular verbs. Then ask about our example character…my crazy friend Joe’s break and then ask the students to box or circle the verbs. Then have them create short dialogues using at least six verbs, three regular and three irregular. This is meant as a review activity, not as a means to teach the difference.


After Obama's win on Tuesday, I now have a new name: HalloBriggiTanarnő has been replaced with ObamaistheWinnerBriggiTanarnő. Well at least in the hallway as I search for my classes.

No, I am not a late-enrolling Train student: Adventures in Szombathely

The bus ride back to Budapest was full of the chatter of future plans. I happily dozed through last minute planning, as I had already arranged a visit to an old university buddy now teaching in rural Austria. So decamping from the bus, Lauren, Lyla and I smsed the guys, to arrange a last minute dinner party.

Gergo and Andy showed up, and the five of us ate Lauren and Lyla’s amazing dinner until late in the evening. So when it came time to wake up, I decided to take the later train I had found, instead of an earlier one. This turned out to be a mistake.

I arrived at Keleti and was immediately panic set in. There were ticket inspectors all over, and I had forgotten where to buy international tickets. Dazed, sleepy and panicky I bought a ticket to Jennersdorf where I would have to catch a bus to the village. I found the train to Szombathely, hopped aboard, found a seat and settled in.

I got a little suspicious when we passed Tata, and asked the girl sitting across from me if the train was going to Szombathely. She said it was, so I settled down. A few hours passed, and I looked at my diary with the connections written in it. I realized that I was on the wrong train; I had not taken the correct train from Keleti, and would miss my connection to Jennersdorf. In a panic I called Emily and Jamie. Between the two of them they broke the bad news, I would miss the last bus to the village by 10 minutes. So I decided to spend the night in Szombathely, explore a bit, and then head on to Austria. I dialed my friend’s number and got a strange garbled message. So I decided to remove two of the numbers and try again. This time the call went through, but was answered not by my friend, but rather by a harassed sounding Austrian woman. Mostly harassed because I tried twice more, and each time she sounded crankier.

So I walked into the Tourinform at the spacious and modern train station, where I was informed that it was unlikely that I would be able to find a hostel, because school was in session, but I should try number 23 in the catalogue. Hoping against hope I called. They had a free bed, but I would have to get there within half an hour. So armed with a map, I fought my way through the twists and turns of medieval street planning, and found it.

It wasn’t until I walked in that I realized that the Hostel was actually the MAV dorms. The courtyard had miniature train tracks and MAV paraphernalia. The porter was confused at first as I was obviously not a train-driving student. Later one of the secretaries came in, rapid fire Hungarian and several stamped papers later, and he was ebullient. Speaking slowly, clearly and slightly louder than normal, as if to someone hard of hearing, he walked me to the stairs and handed me the key to my room.

Later I explored the city, and crashed.

Erdély or Transylvanian travels

The buzz of four phones going off at 4:30am forced our eyes open, and our bodies drowsily out of bed. The four hours of sleep, not nearly being enough to greet the day in any sort of joyful manner. However, our holiday had begun. Bundled to our eyebrows with backpacks and winter gear, Lauren, Lyla, Rob and myself trekked to the opposite side of Budapest to meet the bus. Arriving in front of Eotvos Kollegium, we looked expectantly for a bus, and were met with a largish van decorated with a water motif. Soon enough the nineteen odd people had boarded and we were off the Debrecen to pick up the rest of the party.

Twenty-one Americans, our fearless leader Hajni, Marika our guide and Attila our crazy driver packed into a bus that couldn’t fit a herring more if we had tried. Of our six-day whirlwind tour of Hungarian speaking areas of Transylvania, most of it was spent packed into the bus. Herrings crammed in hopping from village to city and beautiful mountain peak and back to village.

A quick summary of events:

I fell in love in Torocko, the first village where we stayed. His brown eyes and large ears, effortless energy, while Tara and I shared a room with a wood burning stove and he slept on our doorstep. In the morning he walked us to breakfast, then chased the cows walking themselves to the town center. Hajni told me he was a Transylvanian Hunter.

We were greeted every night, and unlike many of our companions not at breakfast, with shots of strong palinka.

Seeing Art Nouveau with a Hungarian folk art twist.

Stalking the streets around Dracula’s birthplace

Watching Hajni stammer and then refuse to translate an excessively dirty and inappropriate folk song, whilst the folk singers stared at her daring her to repeat what they had sung.

Climbing the Rakozi Var, and staring across the boarder of old (pre-1920) Hungary.

Eating a “snack” which accounted for more than three people would eat in a normal meal (there were actually two courses to the snack, along with the obligatory shots of palinka), then two hours later eating a main meal.

Staring at spires of ancient trees emerging out of the water of the Killer Lake.

Learning Folk dances at the rose-hip festival in a tiny village without streetlights. Not having enough willing men in our company, I learnt the male part, whilst Hajni danced the counterpart. It was the difficult stamping and spinning one. Later, bemoaning the fact that I had only danced the male part, Lauren offered to dance with me, but only if I asked in Hungarian. Borrowing Peti’s contribution to my Valami fontosat dictionary, I asked. Instead of a yes, I was met with a demand to ask if she, pretending to be a boy, had a girlfriend. I did, and was then told that because she could not lead, I would have to be the boy.

Our bus, being predominantly full of girls, was stopped by the Romanian police, and checked to see that we were not being transported for human trafficking.

Drinking the wizened blueberries from the bottom of the blueberry palinka.

On Sunday night, having a last minute dinner party with Andy and Gergo, when I tried to convince people I was a grandmother, and the guys told us it was cute when we tried to speak Hungarian.

And finally my favorite, our fearless leader, suffering from a cold announcing that her alternate major in university, had been witchcraft and that if any of us would fall into a stream and die, that she would come after us in the afterlife, and ‘GET US’

Quiet Weekends

Alone for the weekend, I went to a Jazz concert then to the Student disco on Friday night.
As I watched students run the DJ booth, and marveled the dancing. I chatted with the teachers chaperoning the dance, and went home. Saturday was the first of the working Saturdays. Experience had shown me that students are extra squirrelly on Saturdays, so for the most part we had Halloween parties and listened to the Monster Mash. One of my students in 11 a offered me gerbils which she had brought to school in jam jars, and provided distraction during the Halloween party. I declined, and spent the evening visiting another teacher and her daughter in a neighboring village.

Bolodog Nevenapot

October 11 is the most important day in Hungary. Actually it isn’t but it is an important day for me, because it is my (Briggi) name day. It is like a second birthday, when you bring cookies and cakes, and people give you flowers, gifts and good wishes. My name day was very happy, although a little bizarre.

Earlier in the week I met Etelka. She is another English teacher, who I had emailed with, but had been out sick. So shortly after I met her, she told me that on Saturday there would be a marshmallow roast, and would I like to go? Being tantalized by the prospect of marshmallows and in a yes-mood (which gets me into trouble, see the Hike of death in Gyula.) I quickly agreed to go. “Good,” she said “because Lozsi (our principal) wants a teacher from our school to go, because it is on school grounds and our students are invited.” I paled slightly “Ummm…there aren’t going to be any other teachers there?” I queried. “No, I can’t go, and it is a reunion of an English camp” she replied. So I got the language camp co-coordinator’s phone number and was told the time and place to show up, and that of course it was OK if other American teachers came. I quickly SMS-ed a bunch of teachers, using the same bait with which I had been caught, asking them to come.

Most people had plans or emergencies, but luckily two awesomely cool girls, Lauren and Lyla from Budapest did show. I baked them cookies as a thank-you. The three of us, armed with a basket of chocolate, cookies and Bolero vitamin juice tromped off to school. There we waited. And waited, and waited. I saw two of my students walking by our mini campfire and us; they glanced at me and ran away. Then Elteka and the Eger co-coordinators showed up. Turns out they were a religious group who ran the camp out of their church in Eger. It was interesting to chat with other native speakers, and Vivi, another student showed up with her mother. There was awkward conversation and smores for a little longer, then the two boys showed up again, and Vivi and the two boys conversed, and the conversation remained at a semi-awkward level. About half an hour later the students had gone, and the people from Eger had decided to follow suit. Etelka had only stayed about half an hour or so. So Lauren, Lyla and I were left alone on the abandoned campus with the remnants of the fire and the directive to wait for the groundskeeper so that he could lock up.

We did the most natural thing to do when one is stuck on campus. We checked out the dozens of random abandoned tractors that decorate my school’s campus, took strange pictures of each other and ordered pizza. I am a pizza ordering addict. I will admit it. So when time came to order the pizza, without a menu, I could recite about half of the types of pizzas from memory. Another sign that I order pizza too much, is that when I called they asked for my name, and when I replied “Briggi” (which is a Hungarian name), they knew the street, number and floor without my prompting them. After our pizza in the park of the school grounds, we left and walked to my flat. Having nothing else to do that night we did a pub crawl of Heves. All three pubs that I know of, two of them thanks to a facebook message from Jeremy. Unicum, which up until now I had been calling the red-shutterd kocsma, is hopping on a Saturday night. In fact it is crawling with my students (which we realized after we ordered), who all harassed me on Monday because they saw me drink a beer.
The girls and I sang and danced under the chestnut trees, because the gazebo reminded Lauren of the Sound of Music. We also called one of Andy’s buddies that we had met the last time I had been in Budapest, who promptly scolded us for not calling him before 9pm, and told us that next time we were getting together to give him warning. Chastened, the girls invited him to hang out next weekend with them in Budapest.

The next day we chilled out, made French toast, drank fake kir royals and watched oodles of French music television. I also conned Lauren into cutting first my bangs (which I can not do, because I do not have a mirror) and then into cutting my hair. I love it. It was all in all a strange and relaxing weekend.

The sad lament of Finom Oscar

All that was left was a bloody sploge, some feathers, and a couple of choice inedible organs. This was all that was left of Finom Oscar on Monday morning. The No was devastated, now who would she chase down the streets of Heves, his ruddy orange feathers gleaming as he ran? Who now would protect her from rabid bugs on her way to school? And when she had had a bad day, who would she yell “you will be soo tasty one day” to? Only a month into life in Heves, and Finom Oscar was by far her favorite chicken.
But the gruesome death of her favorite chicken was only the beginning of an extraordinarily strange week.
During the week she began to put two and two (hopefully incorrectly), and is vaguely uncomfortable with the 11-D police class. Training to be policemen, the class is dominated by boys, boys who stare at their American teacher. Not the ‘I’m bored, stop speaking to me in this language I don’t understand’ stare that she gets from most of her classes, but a new and disconcerting one. They smile, and stare while they smile. L from BP suggested that the No should report them to their Homeroom teacher. However, the No has nothing concrete to report, no evidence that they tried to lift her skirt or pin something on her, just that they stare at her. This is not a reportable offence, because in Hungary it is not an offence at all. Men stare at women all the time. In fact, the No catches Attila and whom she thinks is the 11D homeroom teacher Zolika staring at her all the time. Perhaps they are just being friendly, like when one of the quieter and dignified 11 D students (who never smiles), popped into a classroom, gave the No a giant goofy grin and waved then ran out again.

They also may just like their American teacher because a few weeks back she did not bail out on the Stork day. Storks bring new things, so in Hungary they half welcome and half haze incoming ninth (and in our school seventh) grade students on the stork day. It involves public acts of humiliation and is run by older grades. Our school does things a little differently; they also haze the new teachers. Surrounded by a crush of students and some other teachers, the No was swept towards the gym. However she was stopped by a number of her 11D students, who were in charge, and decorated with eyeliner on her arms. Suitably resembling an artist’s canvas, she walked into the packed Gym, and was informed that she would be singing a solo of Madonna’s version of American Pie. Not knowing the lyrics, the No instead gave a slam poetry style recitation of ring around the roses. The students did not get off so lightly, and ran egg relays, swore oaths while standing on one leg, and had to pack into ‘nests’ that were so small that they had to hoist the lightest student on their shoulders just to fit. Giggles and smiles dispensed with, the Stork celebration was abruptly over and everyone went home.

The rest of the week the No awkwardly dealt with weeping students in two classes. Her pin-curled hair trying to eat anything not moving fast enough, watching Chicago in three of her classes, made applesauce out of a giganormous box of apples another teacher gave her, gobbling sweets from a package one of her awesome cousins sent, and added to the lies about her imaginary boyfriend/husband/roommate/buddy/mortal enemy Joe.

Attack of the Rabid Slugs, chickens training for sprints, or where are my classes?

This week, the weather turned frigid, and the No still suffering from hill-rolling related rashes on her arms, shuffled around her unheated apartment. Only the third week of September and already she was wearing a third of her clothing at any one time. The rainy conditions brought out the slugs and snails. On her Monday journey towards the school, the No resembled a Russian ballet dancer, as she jumped and skipped around avoiding attacks of rabid and blood thirsty slugs.

The third week in, and the No still got lost on the way to her classes. It is not that she cannot find Room 108, or 224, but for each class there are three different possibilities in her schedule. The fourth and fifth weeks were not much better, and the No has heard that because of a returning teacher, everyone will get a new schedule as of November 1st.

I have visited Budapest both of the last two weekends; the first for a wine festival in a surrounding village and the other weekend to visit friends. Budapest throws into sharp relief not only the difference between the city and country life, and also the changes in myself.

When first landing in Budapest from Minneapolis one of the first things I notice is the complete lack of skyscrapers screaming competing to be the first to pierce the sky. There is more sprawl, but as most of Budapest was built at the turn of the nineteenth century the buildings are ornate and short. Coming in from the country four weeks later, I am overwhelmed by the busy pace and my inability to see the sky. Buildings looming overhead, and the multitude of neon creating a false dawn mess up my internal clock and make me feel claustrophobic.

One of the other big changes that I notice is the amount of English spoken. When arriving in Budapest, it seems as if there is very little I could understand and getting lost as the streams of language swam heavily past my uncomprehending ears. Now returning after living out of the city, I am almost queasy with the amount of English being spoken. Everywhere I go I hear tourists and expats, trying to listen in to all of their conversations makes me dizzy and my head hurt.

However probably the biggest difference is that I have yet to see prison-breaking chickens running sprints down the streets of Budapest. Nor have I seen tractors causing traffic jams, or public transport beeping at sheep and cows to move them off the road. While Heves and its surroundings may not be heart-stoppingly beautiful like Gyula, or breath taking like Budapest at night, the little things warm my heart.

Gulyas

Chaotic beginnings aside, the weekend was lovely. Most of Friday, Johnny Walker and I skipped lessons in order to register in Eger. There, while waiting for the necessary new stamp in my passport, we found Tara. Together we rode back to Heves, and the geography teacher, after scolding me for not calling my colleagues when Tara was lost, showed us which bus we should take to Szolnok.
Cups of tea and scoops of ice cream later, we packed up and hopped on the bus. Emily, laughing at our bus antics, met us at the station.
That night T and I met some of Emily’s friends. We just chilled out, and I was kissed on the hand by some old guy, but in retrospect, at least he let go of my hand right afterwards, unlike the last guy who kissed my hand.

At the festival the next day we watched nun/rapping grannies and small children dancing to drinking songs. Later we met Jeb and Tomi. Together we ate a plethora of Gulyas and wandered through the stalls. Tara and I had a hill-rolling race, and although I won the battle, I lost the war. I rolled the fastest and the farthest, but Tara managed to find the section of the hill without stinging nettles and poison oak.
Later we met up with Attila, who ‘bought’ a belly dancer at a ‘slave auction’ for roughly $5. Despite only buying one, our table managed to collect all of the belly dancers, and Attila convinced one of them to dance on our wobbly table.
After the slave auction, a singer preformed old, and according to the Hungarian speakers, cheesy love songs. It was pretty fun, and Attila and I danced, because neither Emily nor Tara would dance with us.
All too soon the festival was over and we were whisked away to Ujszasz and J’s place. The next morning awesome J made us banana bread and pancakes. We wandered, found a castle, which had been converted into an old-folks home, and went back to J’s for lunch. Sitting on her kitchen floor, eating thick sliced bread covered in various condiments and Hungarian sausage, was peaceful and delicious. Then all too soon had to catch our respected means of transportation home.

Heves – a passionate little town that no one can get to by bus.

I, the No, have a love/hate relationship with the bus. Mostly I hate it, with its sweaty riding, the inability to get up and walk around and go to the bathroom, the gimlet glares if you bring out a roast chicken and palinka (all of which are perfectly acceptable on Hungarian trains). So when I discovered that the train station is way outside and on the other side of town, but the main bus terminal lies tantalizingly just a minute up my street, I thought I would reconsider my old enmity.

So I bleary eyed left for Mariapocs, early one Saturday morning. I’ll admit it; I would not have looked forward to the five-hour journey even on a train. It went smoothly enough, I gracefully switched onto a large comfortable bus in Kalpona. I made it to Nyrighaza and other than an intense need to use the loo the ride had gone well. I met J and T and we wandered through Nyrighaza and later through the beautiful pilgrimage town of Mariapocs. We watched weary pilgrims process past us, and listened to the chanting of the faithful.
But all too soon our weekend was over, and it was time to face the beast…otherwise known as Public Transport in a Foreign Language.

Earlier in the weekend I got the beep beep of a text notifying me that I had less than 300ft on my phone, but had not found a place to recharge it. So, 5 hot and sweaty hours later on the bus, I should have not been surprised by the fact that I missed my stop.

I knew that I was supposed to get off in Gyongyos at 6:23, so at about 6:10 I began to look for a bus terminal. 6:23 came and passed as we stopped at small stops, but I was not too worried, as the bus had been 15 minutes late, and so I gave it a couple extra minutes. Then we passed the TESCOS, and I knew there was trouble. In my previous stay, I had visited Sara in Gyongyos, and we had walked to the outskirts of town and gone to the TESCOS, so when I saw it, I knew we had almost left Gyongyos.
In a panic I turned to the guy behind me and asked where the Bus terminal was. He replied that we would be there in about an hour. “The Gyongyos terminal?” I asked. “No the Budapest one”

Frantically, I texted Emily for help. She saved me on the phone front, which allowed me to call everyone I knew in Budapest asking if they knew if there was a bus back to Heves. No answer, no answer, no answer….until finally a returning teacher, who I had met at orientation answered. He did not have Internet however, and suggested I call Hajni, our amazing program director. She was able to find two buses back to Heves that night.
Later as we got off of the bus, the man who had sat behind me, asked if he could help me find my way. Turns out he was a student returning to Budapest from a weekend at home, and he very kindly found the platform I was to wait at and walked me there.

So after my Budapest adventure, I was a little hesitant when T, was to take the Bus to meet me in Heves. I warned her of the Gyongyos stop, and was assured that she would not be going through Gyongyos, but would be arriving at about 9pm.

At about 8:45pm I got a phone call. “Are you already here?” I asked groggily waking up out of quick nap. “Nooo,” a faint voice called over the phone, “I got off at the stop, to change buses, but my next bus is not on the list at all. Do you know where Dekt is?”

Not having Internet, I could not help much. So as I called Emily, who knows everything, T called J, who had Internet, No longer a tri-fecta, we worked as a quadfecta trying to get our friend out of Dekt.

An hour and a half later of chaos and frantic text messages, our efforts to get her to Heves by Bus had failed. Our program director had found her a place to stay in Eger, and T had new advice for all CETP-ers trying to get to Heves: “never go into Dekt.”

Chicken or Fish?

Begin at the Beginning: This is my second adventure as an English teacher in Hungary, and because the name of my town is Heves (Passion), the temptation to write this blog as a soap opera is overwhelming. Sometimes written in third person

Chicken or Fish?

Three in the morning, and the No who had been on the road for over 12 hours, found herself stranded in Detroit. The eternal line, which had stretched out before her had slowly dwindled as she neared the counter. She faced a frazzled looking attendant with hope and trepidation. Quickly she handed over her itinerary and tried to drown out the loud arguments of other passengers behind her. “We will not be booking any more flights, you will have to do it tomorrow. It is too late, and we are going home,” shouted one attendant. Two passengers returned with rage and exasperation. The boiling emotions made everyone anxious. The No stared at the frantically typing attendant before her, worried about being stuck at just the first leg of her journey. The attendant looked up, their Eyes met, and she handed the No a small bundle of papers. She flipped through a place to sleep for the night and a dozen or so other papers and a new ticket.

The next morning, she awoke re-checked her huge packs, and looked at her new flight. Her jubilation at receiving a ticket died when she saw the connection: only an hour to transfer from the large international terminal in Frankfurt am Main, to the smaller one. One late boarding plane and 12 hours of flying later, the No had only 1 hour to make her connection. Huge csiga shell backpack thumping against her back, she ran, lost through the maze of terminals. Two slow moving security checkpoints and a passport check and a long marathon like run later she arrived five minutes after the hour. Panting and drenched with sweat she stammered out the little German her adrenaline-addled brain could grasp at. The No must have looked like Frankenstein’s younger less attractive and hysterical sibling, judging by the attendants’ responses. One ran down the gateway while the other two assured her that she made the flight and punched her ticket. Wandering down the boarding gateway she was met with the running attendant who offered her a large cup of water and two large wet wipes, and again assured the No that she would be fine, and that the flight was still waiting. She struggled into her seat, and used the wipes to help cool her face. Her seatmate lent across her and pointed both of the air conditioning jests straight at her. Later after she had cooled down, he pointed out major rivers as they flew over them. It was a relaxing end, the No was sure to the drama of the last two flights. They touched down gently, and rolled up to the airport. The No fully recovered the little German her non-frantic brain could remember thanked the flight attendants as she de-boarded the plane. Once to the baggage terminal, she made a beeline for the trolleys, remembering the difficult struggle it was to carry them herself in Detroit when she had to leave the airport. Ready, she waited impatiently. Just on the other side of the wall was a friend, waiting for her. The carousel lazily drifted past. Red bags, green bags, black bags, duffle bags….everything but her luggage. Lost, or at least misplaced was the verdict that led her into yet another line. Four other people waited before her, and while she waited, she noticed an older lady in a wheelchair having communication problems with the Hungarian staff. “May I help?” she offered. The problem was where to send the lady’s luggage, as she was booked into an Iris hotel, but the staff said that there was no Iris in Budapest. It could be the Ibis, but the lady said what she wrote down, was all that she had. The No, tried to help, and succeeded in only being able to help the lady fill out the forms, and assure her that the clerk would return her ticket once he had all of the necessary information. Then, as the lady was whisked away, she gave her own information. Two minutes later, she was through the double doors and a new year had begun. The year of NO.