The ups and downs of a new relationship

Discovering a new home on the other side of the world is like discovering a new lover; emotional, temporal, and physical upheaval that can be both good and bad. As the slow perusal of a new landscape begins, the body flushes around excess hormones that feel both jubilant yet tense, knotted stomachs, giggles, smiles, bated breath, sleepless nights, etc.

The first week of settling in began with discovering the most important thing: finding a grocery store and stocking my kitchen. And one of the reasons I chose to come here, to live off of less money due to Hungary being still a middle-income country, was confirmed. Here, I can finally comfortably afford animal protein! Salami and pork and pates and wonderful varieties of cheeses that I don’t exactly know what they are cause I can’t understand the labels. And to top it off, there is a wide selection of local wine that is highly palatable, ranging from two dollars to above 20$ a bottle. I’ve mainly stuck within the the 2-5 dollar range which I’m told by locals is a mistake. But hey! Palatability is completely subjective….to a point.

The first night of my arrival, I made a nice dinner for myself and drank some cheap-ass wine and got a good night sleep. My Hungarian language course, an intensive Monday to Friday, 9am  to noon for four weeks was set to begin in a couple weeks. This would drastically be reducing my available dissertation-writing hours for the month of September and I had big plans to get right down to business as soon as I arrived here in order to compensate.

Because writing my dissertation before the ‘cheese’ runs out truly does remain an important priority, I had decided that the discovery of this city, country, and culture would be a slow unfolding adventure; daytime work hours dedicated to writing, with evenings and weekends being time to explore.

However, my dream of productivity the first few days here died VERY quickly. Instead, my first days were filled with insurmountable exhaustion coupled with restlessness and the inability to focus; a sense of feeling completely un-grounded. So, in lieu of not working, and with the determination to spend an entire day awake until AT LEAST 8:30 pm, I attempted some preliminary exploration; figuring out potential appropriate cafes and libraries in which to work, how to use the public transit, etc. And I would experience this internal dissonance as I wandered the beautiful streets, gazing up in awe at the details of the buildings, reminiscent of slightly run-down, intricately decorated classical revivalist wedding cakes:

…all the while, amidst the awe, the overwhelming Hungarian summer sun beat down on me, leaving me drenched in sweat, my inner thighs uncomfortably chaffing under my sun dress, and the soles of my feet burning in my birkenstocks. The heat and exhaustion would eventually win out most of these first days. I’d end up back at my apartment, with it’s huge south facing windows and gauzy white curtains that created an afternoon, dream-like, brilliant, white light/greenhouse effect. And I’d retire for yet another long nap.

Everyday that first week involved a daily conversation between me and myself regarding whether I even wanted to arise from bed each day. Once I would awake and find myself, again, unable to focus on work, I’d have to make a decision as to whether I should stay inside and binge watch “Married at First Sight” or whether I should go do some exploring. I’d say that I did all of these things (naps, binge-watching, exploring) in equal measure throughout that first week.

I did, however, manage one good half-day of work in the first week, as the weight of the guilt of not working exacerbated my fatigued, overheated body. After breaking for lunch on this intense half-day of work, I went for a stroll around my new neighbourhood in District 6, called Terezsvaros (Theresa City). My main goal was to see what other kind of food stores were available close by my accommodation. I stumbled upon a park, Varosliget (City park), two blocks away from my apartment, that contained what can only be described as monuments that took my breath away:

…and re-ignited the fire in me; reminded me of why coming here had been a dream for such a long time.

That night, an attractive upper-body skin rash began to blossom. It concerned me. I started to believe that it might be shingles from the stress of the last month finally manifesting physically. After consulting with an expert/friend via facebook, it did not seem likely that it was shingles but rather a sensitivity to the Magyar brand of soap at my airbnb. My overactive immune system tends to go through a janky period as it adjusts to a new position on the earth. This has, in the past, led to some scary unexplainable and unexpected allergic reactions in exotic places.

The next day I made an attempt to work in the afternoon at one of the city’s beautiful old-worldy libraries only to arrive and find it closed for the month of August. After wasting time finding an alternative place to work, a very north-american style cafe that lets us entitled students spend two dollars and sit for three hours, I did a few hours of data analysis. Then I headed for an evening soak at Kiraly Gyurofurdo, one of the city’s many thermal baths. This particular bath, located on the Buda side of the city, is an old run down Romanesque structure built in the 1500s and is of the Turkish bath genre in which one rotates from one pool to the next under the dark charm of a stone vaulted dome ceiling. The patrons consisted mainly of young tourists and a few old barrel-bellied Hungarian women who, I can only assume, have been frequenting thermal baths their entire life and swear by it as medical treatment. I too hoped it would work its magic on my new rash. And while the rash did slowly improve after the first week I think it had more to do with the magic elixir that is cortisone cream.

That night, after the baths, less than three days after I arrived, I said out loud to myself (yes this is how I entertain myself alone in a new city where I know nobody…good convos with myself): I’m going to stay her forever. I’m determined to make this work. So we’ll see but I do tend to be a do-er.

My First Weekend in Budapest: national pride and shame?

Following my first Friday night in Budapest, where I spent the evening dining out alone on the most Hungarian meal ever, was Saturday August 20th, Saint Stephen’s Day. This is an important national holiday that celebrates the first king of Hungary who is responsible for the Christianisation of the country. Thank Christ for the Christians who civilised the world, yes? And Hungarians celebrate this day by parading the allegedly original, 900 year-old mummified hand of King Steve-o around the city.

I intended to attend a number of the day’s festivities. However, I am famous for my attempts at touristing and missing the things I aim to see for whatever reason. So I missed both the big morning colours parade outside of the parliament in Kossuth Lajos Ter (square) and the procession of the hand (“next year for sure though”, I told myself).

I essentially arrived at the parliament in time to see the chairs being packed up, the lingering spectators, and Hungarian soldiers in their full regalia, sabres and all. The civilians were all sporting their Sunday best (on a Saturday); suits, dresses and high heels for a national holiday celebration event. I think this says something interesting about a people, no?

I meandered along the Danube until I reached Vaci Utca, Budapest’s major pedestrian-only shopping street. My intention was to purchase a pair of running shoes that would be heralded as the saviours of my burning birkenstock soles. NOTHING…ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ruins touristing  more than inappropriate footwear. And another fail. All the shops were closed and alas I found myself facing the prospect of limping around the city all day in the sweltering sunshine with burning feet. Sigh.

As I continued my zen wandering over my own personal bed of hot coals, I came across some csardas street singers who were enchanting the onlookers with mournful traditional songs (and I say traditional only because loads of senior citizens were singing along). It’s either too bad that the singers’ traditional Hungarian garb has recently been co-opted by Hungary’s far FAR right Jobbik Party (like the neo-nazis) to wear as their protest uniform (for at least at one protest in the past) OR that these csardas singers ARE Jobbik party members….not sure. Could be interpreted in different ways given I know zilch about traditional Hungarian clothes and I don’t speak enough Hungarian to understand anything…yet. But I sure did like the sound of them and that hurdy gurdy.

I hopped a bus across the river to attend a food festival called  “A Taste of Hungary”… along with, what felt like, the entirety of the Hungarian population. There were thousands of people crammed into a couple sidewalks lined by an overwhelming hundreds of food tents with cuisine from all over the country to choose from.

Line ups for drinks were 30 people deep. The line ups for food were of a similar size….except for one tent.

It was the tent selling Roma food. It smelled great and all seemed kosher so at first I thought, “well maybe I just passed this tent during a lull of people”. But twice as I walked by there was a radius of open space around the tent even amidst this massively packed festival that had quickly become a pleine d’air sardine can. “Hmmm”, I thought, “is this really what I think it is?” I quickly jumped to the conclusion that yes, this was highly visible discrimination to the extent that it was reflected in this physical open space surrounding the tent. It made me feel sad and uncomfortable. These feelings continued to sit with me for a few days and I had yet to meet anyone who could verify that this was, or was not, racism in praxis

Now, I DO NOT want to assume that the Roma food tent was not being patronised because a large majority of Hungarians have a tendency towards racism with a particular old skool hate-on for “Gypsies”… I’m just telling you what I observed at this particular event. It would be imprudent of me to paint all Hungarians as fascist racists but there is some plausibility as to the conclusion I did indeed jump to.

But even if explicit racism wasn’t what I observed that day, that National Holiday, Hungary is a context in which there is a LONG legacy of the Roma being hated by millions of people. They are regularly labelled by ordinary citizens, policemen, media, and the government, as lazy, thieves, rapists, murderers, and animals…basically treated as the filth of society, Hungary’s disposable population:

“Most Gypsies are not suitable for cohabitation. They are not suitable for being among people. Most are animals, and behave like animals. They shouldn’t be tolerated or understood, but stamped out. Animals should not exist. In no way.”-Zsolt Bayer, Magyar Hirlap, 5 January 2013,Zsolt Bayer, one of the founders of Hungary’s ruling Fidesz party and personal friend of Prime Minister Viktor Orbán.

What courage (or desperation, I don’t know….the food was all expensive so I assume there were profits to be made) it must take, in the face of chronic VERY visible, palpable social exclusion, to sign up for an event like this; to sign up to participate in the “Taste of Hungary” food festival on a national holiday of a country that views you and your people as an un-redeemable scourge.

Anyways, back to the important stuff….I would never have attended something like this food festival in Canada due to my aversion to mass crowds at festivals and lineups in general. What I thought would be a nice place for a leisurely lunch of tasty regional cuisine ended up being no such thing. I wrangled my way into some porkchops and sauteed cabbage and a beer and ate in the scorching sun on some corner of a picnic table. The line ups, and the outrageous price of food, deterred me from spending any more time there. After purchasing some VERY serious salami, with the ever-increasing feeling that the skin on the soles of my feet were becoming one with the cork of my birkenstocks, I limped to the bus stop to begin my journey home for another long afternoon nap in my airbnb greenhouse.

SOLID first week, I know. BE BETTER, Adrienne!