Monthly Archives: August 2010

The Visitors

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My family has finally made it to Budapest!  Naturally a 2 day rain-binge has begun, ushering it a pre-fall dose of water and chill. But they are here and we are already having a great time.  Last night we went to a restaurant near to the basilica, and today, despite the rain, we toured around the city seeing some of the major sites. It’s almost happy hour so I will save a little time by posting a slideshow of a few pics from today.  They will be here for quite some time so there should be much more to come, so stay tuned.

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The End of Summer Wedding Season

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We went to FOUR weddings this summer. I think it’s one of the first official sign of my 30s. That and I can’t seem to stay awake past 10 p.m. I like the Hungarian wedding tradition. City or town hall, public official, signing of documents, witnesses, a kiss or two to seal the deal, and a champagne toast. (And all in about 20 minutes!).

All of the weddings (and brides of course) were very beautiful, and I was really happy to be invited for the special days.  I uploaded the pictures into just one slideshow here to try out the new wordpress slide feature, which I can hopefully use from now on, considering its ease.

Congratulations to all of the happy couples: Kiss Julianna és Burg Balázs, Tóth Géza és Győző-Molnár Anita, Szarvas Júlia és Máhl János and Szarvas Gábor és Kasza Ildikó.

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August 20th

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I try to start out each morning with a perfect long coffee espresso. Sometimes I add 7.5 grams of 10% cream and sometimes I add 2.5 grams of raw sugar. The star, of course, is the espresso.

In college, or after when teaching, I could pound a liter of black coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts on my way to school, especially before an early class.  And there were plenty of nights in grad school when I had to stay up late defending theory papers fueled forward only by fear and a venti latte from Starbucks.

I think that moving to Europe really brought out my love for coffee, which I think is central to many Americans. Only I didn’t know how wrong I had been drinking it for so many years.

I’ve told my parents to start practicing on cappuccinos before they come here in less than two weeks. I hope to convert them during their time abroad.

We’ve been running around so much getting ready for my parents, in addition to travelling back and forth from Budapest and Szeged for weddings, that I almost forgot that tomorrow is August 20th and a national holiday.  The day is to celebrate saintiness of King Stephen, though it actually commemorates the anniversary of the holy relic (Stephen’s mummified right forearm and hand) arriving in Budapest. I don’t think it travelled here on its own, but if it did, that would really be something to celebrate.

You can read about my August 20th experience last year here.

We probably won’t be attending any of the festivities this year, though we might watch the fireworks tomorrow night from the part of the river near to our flat.

If you are in the city I don’t even have to urge you to see the fireworks because basically all of Budapest shuts down for them. And they are really a site, so make your way to the river if you get a chance.

As for me, I’m spending the weekend getting excited for my family’s first visit to the “old country” by preparing things for the flat they are going to stay in, and of course stocking up on gin and tonic.  I’ve never been the type to wish away the summer, but this year, I’ve just been looking forward so much to their arrival that I find myself literally counting down the days. So I guess I’ll celebrate that the month is almost over and the fun is about to begin.

A Visit to Former Yugoslavia

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My mom and I were sitting in the flat. We had our usual night watching the quiz shows and having dinner in front of the TV. No matter how loud the TV was, we still couldn’t overcome the sounds of the bombs. It was scary. But we didn’t talk about it. It was kind of a don’t-talk-about-it or don’t-notice-it, as if talking about it would make it serious

I sometimes looked out of the window, because it seemed closer. We heard the airplanes, too. And since we never heard them before –my hometown is not a used air corridor of Hungary- it gave us more fears, of course.

I never went to Yugoslavia those times. I didn’t know how close it was. When I heard the bombs or whatever those sounds were, I realized it was much closer than I could ever imagine.

We saw it in the news. The war started at the Balkans. We saw some pictures, videos. I can hardly remember them, but the picture in my head. Bombs exploding. Sad and dirty faced crying adults and children.

–Györgyi, reflecting on the sounds of war in the former Yugoslavia

Saturday we went to Serbia.  Our purpose was just to spend the day there and go to the market in Subotica. Though Belgrade is only about an hour and a half away from Szeged, when we crossed the border into Serbia, we knew immediately it had been a mistake to go on Saturday. For several weeks, the border agents have been fastidiously serching cars for illegal Turkish workers and contraband. When we saw the line of cars trying to get back into the EU, we decided to try to find another border to cross back into Hungary.

Serbia has a long and extraordinarily complex history that ranges from the 7th century all the way until 2006, when the country became independent from Yugoslavia. Like Hungary (and also once party of the Kingdom of Hungary), Serbia has been a place of medeival power, continuous invasion, and political termoil. Serbia is also the home of one of the 20th century’s great monsters: Slobodan Milošević.

When we were driving we got lost a few times.  First of all, our British GPS does NOT want anyone to drive through Serbia.  It will take you 8 hours out of the way in order to avoid it. So we had to rely on Györgyi’s Hungarian instinct to find her homeland.  We were close several times and even thought we might be able to just sneak back into Hungary on a back road that no one looks after anymore.  But as the road got close to Hungary, it just ended.  Then nothing but expanse of fields and barbed wire. And the river.

I have a recurring nightmare about border crossings.  I think it is because I was fascinated by East and West Germany right at the time in my childhood when I really started watching the news with my parents at night before bed.  And I still have the same dream.  Being in a foreign, unfamiliar, usually dangerous place.  I’m trying to get across the border and failing or getting caught.  And then running or driving as fast and recklessly as possible, all the while my loud and uncontrolled heartbeat is giving away my position to whoever is chasing me.  Sometimes I’m trying to get someone else across.  When I was little I was trying to get across my little brother. Sometimes he was a baby or his knees were too chubby to run fast. Or my mom who was always losing things along the way.  In recent years its been Györgyi or Bárnabás.  Something on Saturday really triggered that old panic in me again.

We went through a few small towns and a gas station attendent spoke Hungarian so Györgyi could ask the way to the nearest border crossing that might not have such a long line.  We went and waited for 30 minutes.  When we got to the border, the Serbian guards didn’t let me out.  My heart was beating and beating.

So we headed back to the long line at the main EU crossing.  On the way, we saw many characteristics of village life. Bicycles, tractors, and a train station that was only large enough for 1 or 2 people to wait for the train.  Even though it was just 10 km from Szeged, it seemed like a totally different world.

Last year in Salzburg I met a couple who went to Kent State. They were living in Belgrade as part of a US government team (are now too, I assume) and we chatted for a few minutes about Serbia and the crossroads of Central and Southeastern Europe.  They said that even though Serbia is trying to pull itself out of the traumas of the past, having recently applied for membership in the EU, the capital city is still strikingly gritty. And maybe if I had been in a better mood, if I hadn’t been worried about getting denied re-entry and having to sit for three hours in the main line, we would have just gone to the market, visited a little lake, and headed back to Hungary with a much different impression of Serbia. But it still didn’t feel like Europe. And not in the same way that Croatia doesn’t feel like Europe. I don’t want to use a word to describe it that will be misconstrued as being negative, so I think I will just borrow from a fellow ex-pat with experience in Serbia.  It was gritty.

Györgyi was growing up in Szeged when the war was going on so close to home. She was in her teenage years then, and the fighting came very close to the border. I asked her to describe her experience, which is what is transcribed at the beginning of this post. I remember the war too, but only on television. And only as flashes of light streaking across the sky and President Clinton sitting behind his desk and explaining the positions in his slow, southern drawl. The comfort of distance.

We finally made it back to the EU border and the guard asked Györgyi in Hungarian if the American lady had ever experienced something like that crossing. She answered no.  And I think I felt kind of stupid and a little ashamed. Like as the American lady in the line of thousands of people, I was somehow more delicate than anyone else, more unprepared for the truth about borders and their significance. Getting in. Going home. But I’m trying to make up for it, I hope, by learning what I can and talking to people who lived through it and around it. There’s a great book of poetry by Lee Peterson called Rooms and Fields: Dramatic Monologues from the War in Bosnia.  I highly recommend it to anyone looking for some voices of this region in a not-to-distant past. After my experience on Saturday, I think I’ll read it again too.

The Invader

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Once every twelve to sixteen months I go into my bedroom and take a nap. This is a rarity in my life, not because of an extraordinarily busy schedule (though it seems like I have more of those days than less recently) but rather because I’m not a good napper. I calculate sleep on bare minimums for necessity reasons only and I tend to panic when I’m not doing something. Anything. At all. But this morning at around 8, having only been up for 3 hours, I suddenly felt the urge to take a nap. So Barnabás and I fled into the bedroom, closed the blinds, and sank into the peaceful.

About 35 minutes later I heard the first sound.  Something with the ting-tone of a wine glass or tea cup jiggling around in the kitchen. Since I have a weakness in overreacting to the possibility of HOME INVADERS! in the middle of the night, which is merely a combination of a tired mind and tendency toward irrational scenario speculations, I put my head back onto the pillow and disregarded any noise as someone upstairs or next door, putting away dishes.

Another ten minutes went by and I heard the sound again. The nap wasn’t working anyway, so I slowly got up from the bed and walked out into the kitchen.

Suddenly from my left, all I could see was a blur of feathers whipping past my face. I looked down at Barnabás, who also turned his head with the passing feathers and wings. I called out to him, trying to grab him by his little goat legs and take him back into the bedroom.  I did this because I grew up with bird dogs, huntin’ dogs, so my instinct was in assuming that he would go after the renegade pigeon and maybe even try to kill it. Once, when we lived at the house on Misty Lane, our Golden Retriever, Madeline jumped up and caught a bird in her mouth, mid-air. To this day I think my brother insists it is still the most amazing thing he has ever witnessed.

But Barnabás just turned around and walked toward his food bowl. It wasn’t symbolic. It was 9:15 and feeding time.

It wasn’t all that traumatizing to have a bird in the apartment, as I thought it might be. I imagined myself, half-lunatic, screaming and chasing the bird (since we don’t have a broom) with my mini American flag or a dumpling ladle. And I always assumed it would happen one day or another. For one thing, the rooftop across from our building is basically a pigeon porn den, where dozens of birds are mating and nesting all year long. For another, I leave the balcony door wide open during the day, preferring the sounds of the city to the crazy lady on the 7th floor who plays Alicia Keys’ “Try Sleeping with a Broken Heart” on her organ all afternoon.

I didn’t see much of our mystery guest, supersonic cloud, gray dust devil as she tore out of the room, the opened door, and back to the thirteenth district air. But she didn’t leave without a departing gift:

She pooped out a blueberry onto my couch. Where I sit. And usually write these posts.

Csuta Cukrászda

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On Saturday, Gy and I went to Csákvár, a 45-minute drive northwest of Budapest. The skies were a bit overcast, and the occasional rain drop marred the beautiful contrasts of settling fields and acres upon acres of sunflowers. Csákvár is a small village, population just over 5,000, and is home to an Esterházy castle (Esterházy being a noble family from the Kingdom of Hungary dating back to the Middle Ages).

But we didn’t go to Csákvár for the sunflowers or the castle.  We went for the Cukrászda in the village center. Csuta Cukrászda to be exact, where you will find the 2010 ICE CREAM OF THE YEAR! I feel that should be capitalized.

I foolishly forgot my fancy cam, so I had to take pictures with my iPhone 3Gs, which didn’t do such a bad job.

Csuta Cukrászda is located right in the center of the village. If you are driving there, which I assume anyone reading this blog would be doing, you basically enter the town, drive about 1/2 km down Kossuth u. and you will find it.

The purpose of the trip was to try the ICE CREAM OF THE YEAR!, which I think is as good a reason as any to take a day trip these days. The ice cream name is Házias Vidámság, which means “domestic cheerfulness.” Someone is going to ask, “well what’s in it,” but it was hard to tell.  If I said, “deliciousness,” that wouldn’t really settle the question. But I could definitely taste plum and maybe cinnamon. But I don’t want to guess. Just try it if you go, it will be worth it.

I indulged in a second scoop as well, but I forget the name. I think it was some kind of vanilla and cookie. It was delicious too. As you can see, the scoops are not American sized, which is a good thing. And I think each scoop was around 150 HUF, which right now is just less than 70 cents. Györgyi also had the ICE CREAM OF THE YEAR! in addition to a few others: cantaloupe and a chocolate cake ice cream.

The Cukrászda itself is located in what seems to be a little village house. The interior has 4 or 5 tables, lined with regional art work, a coat and newspaper stand. Above the ice cream and cake selection, trophies for ice cream wins are proudly displayed. In the back, there is a small garden with more tables, and a gym for working out your sugar buzzed kids.

When I went back inside after taking a few pictures, I noticed that Gy had ordered a second round. Pretty classic. Espresso and another chocolate cake scoop in a cone, this time.

For purely journalistic reasons (look what sacrifices I make for you, Internet!), we decided to take home a few of their cakes. It would be wrong to recommend driving that far out of the comfortable city if we didn’t give people the whole picture, right?

Gy had a classic Hungarian cake called Mézes zserbo in addition to a chocolate, punch & sprinkles cake (not official name). I had a chocolate cream and some kind of chocolate ball with fudge in the center. They were all delicate and creamy. You can tell that they are made fresh and with the kind of care taken by someone who is really passionate about what they do.

If you are looking for a quirky afternoon trip, or are in the mood for a great ice cream stop when on your way from Budapest to Vienna or other northwestern Hungarian towns, I highly recommend pulling into Csuta Cukrászda. Spending an afternoon in a small village with one of life’s little pleasures is never a bad use of time, even for you most hardened of city-dwellers.

Csuta Cukrászda
8083 Csákvár, Kossuth u. 20.
(22) 255 398