The past few days, Budapest has been experiencing the withdrawal of the San Fran weather, replaced by a depressing drizzle/rain.
I spent the last three days inside for the most part, lulled into a warm cocoon of pathetic fallacy. Today I ventured out into the gray mist solely for the sake of staving off cabin fever, and the sadness that enveloped me from the week's events. I spent an hour and a half at California Coffee, nursing a hot chocolate and reading Only in America by Matt Frei (he recounts his experience of working as a BBC correspondent in DC under the Bush administration -- pretty entertaining, check it out). I could see the Bazilika through the window, and part of the Latin written above the neo-classical facade: "Ego Sum Via Veritas et Vita." "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life." John 14:6.
When I was in San Francisco with Anna and Jackie, I would annoy them to no end by insisting on going into churches, spending at least twenty minutes in each one, walking around the perimeter, especially the sanctuary itself. Grace Cathedral particularly caught my breath. A peace filled the entire space, with the light coming through the wide, graceful windows, the creaking of feet on the wooden floorboards, the lingering smell of incense or perhaps old wood. The only time I felt this way was at the top of a waterfall in the Appalachians of Vermont. I still don't know how to define my idea of religion, or even the existence of God, but I know that if ever an edifice existed that could boast to be a House of God, this was it.
Today, hearing the bells of the six o'clock mass, I was seized by the desire to find that feeling again, to be surrounded by the peace that comes with believing in something greater than one's self. I walked into the church and stood at the back next to the "Tourist! Stop!" sign. Alongside me was a couple with their infant child, who looked like I felt, his face crumpled into a tearful grimace. The gray light poured down from the dome, clashing with the warmth of the candles, the red marble, and the gilded details. At the front, men who dedicated their lives to God were waving incense, and a woman knelt down by me, crossing herself. In spite of the large space, the mass felt intimate. I felt like a ragamuffin pressing up my nose against the frosted glass of a family's house. Chimney, snow, roast turkey, and all. I didn't belong, but at the same time, I felt myself included.
I shuffled out of the church after a few minutes (the sermon was in Hungarian, after all), and returned home.
For the first time in my life, I feel that I am truly pushing myself beyond my emotional comfort zone; beyond being scared shitless, I also know that I am making good, honest decisions. The future is, as always, obscure, but I have a head on my shoulders and the love of the best of friends to help me.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Strange Birds
My kids are going through a Dr. Seuss stage, and I've been reading Marvin K. Mooney, I Can Read With My Eyes Shut!, Hop on Pop, and other such nonsense to them on a daily basis. I almost know Oh, the Thinks You Can Think! by heart now.
I always dismissed Dr. Seuss, I think, because I never really read it. Not really. His books seemed a bit moronic and patronizing to me. But this may be because I never read it to kids before. Real live-like kids. They eat it up like crack. Watching their faces as I read (even something as simple as Hop on Pop) is the most incredible thing. They listen with attentive wonder, follow the drawings with their eyes, and laugh at almost every part.
"No, Pat, no!" I turn to a page with a picture of a bear about to sit on a cactus. "Don't sit on that!"
"Ouch! That would really hurt!" Jochem squeals with ill-disguised glee.
One time I even caught Simon reading Hop on Pop. Simi! Reading! A whole book in English! Maybe in America, a 6 year old reading Hop on Pop isn't that impressive, but for me to find one of my Hungarian kids reading an English book on their own initiative was one of the highlights of my week. It's hard to express how much I love these kids and how proud I am of every little thing they do -- even something as minor as Dori showing a younger kid how to hold her spoon, or Lora and Zsofi squabbling amongst themselves, all in perfect English. Every minute I have spent frustrated or angry or sad in the school or outside all seem worth it just for those rewarding seconds. I am not sure how I'm going to handle leaving these guys.
If you want to see my superkids in full cuteness glory, here's a video of them doing Hungarian folk dancing. As if they weren't cute enough already:
In other news, Anna came to visit for 9 days. It was grand! Plus or minus an illness or two...
I always dismissed Dr. Seuss, I think, because I never really read it. Not really. His books seemed a bit moronic and patronizing to me. But this may be because I never read it to kids before. Real live-like kids. They eat it up like crack. Watching their faces as I read (even something as simple as Hop on Pop) is the most incredible thing. They listen with attentive wonder, follow the drawings with their eyes, and laugh at almost every part.
"No, Pat, no!" I turn to a page with a picture of a bear about to sit on a cactus. "Don't sit on that!"
"Ouch! That would really hurt!" Jochem squeals with ill-disguised glee.
One time I even caught Simon reading Hop on Pop. Simi! Reading! A whole book in English! Maybe in America, a 6 year old reading Hop on Pop isn't that impressive, but for me to find one of my Hungarian kids reading an English book on their own initiative was one of the highlights of my week. It's hard to express how much I love these kids and how proud I am of every little thing they do -- even something as minor as Dori showing a younger kid how to hold her spoon, or Lora and Zsofi squabbling amongst themselves, all in perfect English. Every minute I have spent frustrated or angry or sad in the school or outside all seem worth it just for those rewarding seconds. I am not sure how I'm going to handle leaving these guys.
If you want to see my superkids in full cuteness glory, here's a video of them doing Hungarian folk dancing. As if they weren't cute enough already:
In other news, Anna came to visit for 9 days. It was grand! Plus or minus an illness or two...
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Keep it in your pants, kid.
Kids are growing up so fast these days. Or maybe it's how fast they've always grown up, but I just never noticed because I was always one step behind. It just seems to me, from what I see in my little people, that boys and girls seem hyper-aware of each other's sexuality lately, even at the ages of 6 and 7.
Take this afternoon, for instance. After lunch, the kids who don't nap usually stay in the playing room and... play. Most days, I stay with them and try to keep at bay the madness that is inevitably bound to explode whenever more than a dozen children are gathered in a living room-sized space (at the end of free-play, the room really does look like a war zone, or as if KB Toys projectile vomited everywhere). The oldest group of kids --or Blue Group, as I often address them collectively-- has already been showing signs of that previously mentioned awareness (with Ju. taking off her top for the boys one day, Mel. and Jan. declaring their love for each other via colored pencils another day, etc etc). Today though, I was holding a sleepy baby in my arms when I saw G. and D. in a corner in a somewhat shocking pose. I won't be too specific, but there was straddling involved. G., the boy, was kissing the living daylights out of a giggling D., who was yelling "no, stop, no!" I was at a loss of what to do. Clearly she wasn't being hurt in any way, and she was enjoying the whole situation a great deal, but at the same time, this went against every scrap of feminism I had rattling around in me. Not to mention, hello, 6 years old.
Naturally, I tossed the baby aside, yelled at G. to get off, sat him down on a chair and lectured him about the meaning of "no." While I was yelling at G, who in reality is actually a really sweet though mischievous kid, D. was behind me, egging on Jan. and S. to kiss her. I whipped around, and saw D. being gang-kissed by three boys. "Jenny-mama!" She shouted happily through a tangle of arms and lips. "Look! I have three kissing machines!"***
What can I say. The girl knows what she wants, and how to get it. That, among other things, makes her my favorite.
***Quick side-note: D. is also a little homewrecker because moments later, Reb. was near tears, yelling at Jan. in rapid Hungarian, demanding from him an explanation for why D. is now His Girl Friday. Jan. turned to me in sheer exasperation: "I don't know what to do. I like Reb. but I ALSO like D.!"
Story of my life, kid. Ah. Young heartache.
Take this afternoon, for instance. After lunch, the kids who don't nap usually stay in the playing room and... play. Most days, I stay with them and try to keep at bay the madness that is inevitably bound to explode whenever more than a dozen children are gathered in a living room-sized space (at the end of free-play, the room really does look like a war zone, or as if KB Toys projectile vomited everywhere). The oldest group of kids --or Blue Group, as I often address them collectively-- has already been showing signs of that previously mentioned awareness (with Ju. taking off her top for the boys one day, Mel. and Jan. declaring their love for each other via colored pencils another day, etc etc). Today though, I was holding a sleepy baby in my arms when I saw G. and D. in a corner in a somewhat shocking pose. I won't be too specific, but there was straddling involved. G., the boy, was kissing the living daylights out of a giggling D., who was yelling "no, stop, no!" I was at a loss of what to do. Clearly she wasn't being hurt in any way, and she was enjoying the whole situation a great deal, but at the same time, this went against every scrap of feminism I had rattling around in me. Not to mention, hello, 6 years old.
Naturally, I tossed the baby aside, yelled at G. to get off, sat him down on a chair and lectured him about the meaning of "no." While I was yelling at G, who in reality is actually a really sweet though mischievous kid, D. was behind me, egging on Jan. and S. to kiss her. I whipped around, and saw D. being gang-kissed by three boys. "Jenny-mama!" She shouted happily through a tangle of arms and lips. "Look! I have three kissing machines!"***
What can I say. The girl knows what she wants, and how to get it. That, among other things, makes her my favorite.
***Quick side-note: D. is also a little homewrecker because moments later, Reb. was near tears, yelling at Jan. in rapid Hungarian, demanding from him an explanation for why D. is now His Girl Friday. Jan. turned to me in sheer exasperation: "I don't know what to do. I like Reb. but I ALSO like D.!"
Story of my life, kid. Ah. Young heartache.
Friday, May 1, 2009
www.overheardinbudapest.com
One of the things I mess up regularly in Hungary is avoiding being That Obnoxious Foreigner. As in, I walk around the streets of Budapest, speaking English loudly without censoring myself or lowering my voice, because, hey, I'm in fuckin' Hungary! Nobody understands me anyway, right!?!?!
Well, one of my favorite things is overhearing other English-speaking foreigners make the same mistake, and listening in on their conversations. Creepy? Maybe. Hilarious? Always. Take tonight, for example, as I was walking from Deak ter to the Bazilika, trying to make myself as unobtrusive and un-attackable as possible, seeing as it was after midnight. On the other side of the cobblestone promenade walked three young men (of mediocre to passable looks, in case you were wondering, and you were, so don't even pretend), talking loudly in what could only be the dear Queen's own English. My ears perked up, as they always do at this comforting sound, and I began to listen in on their conversation, which was quite loud (they probably thought they were alone, and were probably quite trashed). I caught only snippets, but it went along the following lines:
"Yeah then she showed me her something something."
Guffawing approval from friend.
"Then she made me touch her stomach something something, and said 'can you believe
I've had three kids?'"
Exclamatory phrase by other friend.
"In the end, though, I only paid 15 for the whole thing, and she only gave me [censored]."
This was followed by the second friend recounting a similar, more expensive rendezvous, with what I could only hope, for his sake, a more satisfactory set of results.
At this point, one of them looked over, and saw me walking across the street, dragging my dropped jaw behind me. They then quickly lowered their voices, snickering their English snickers, which are much more refined than American snickers don't you know (even though they use Women of the Night, just like any red-blooded man).
I was mostly just a)impressed at the woman's sass and b)hoping that the man usually used protection when obtaining, er, services.
Well, one of my favorite things is overhearing other English-speaking foreigners make the same mistake, and listening in on their conversations. Creepy? Maybe. Hilarious? Always. Take tonight, for example, as I was walking from Deak ter to the Bazilika, trying to make myself as unobtrusive and un-attackable as possible, seeing as it was after midnight. On the other side of the cobblestone promenade walked three young men (of mediocre to passable looks, in case you were wondering, and you were, so don't even pretend), talking loudly in what could only be the dear Queen's own English. My ears perked up, as they always do at this comforting sound, and I began to listen in on their conversation, which was quite loud (they probably thought they were alone, and were probably quite trashed). I caught only snippets, but it went along the following lines:
"Yeah then she showed me her something something."
Guffawing approval from friend.
"Then she made me touch her stomach something something, and said 'can you believe
I've had three kids?'"
Exclamatory phrase by other friend.
"In the end, though, I only paid 15 for the whole thing, and she only gave me [censored]."
This was followed by the second friend recounting a similar, more expensive rendezvous, with what I could only hope, for his sake, a more satisfactory set of results.
At this point, one of them looked over, and saw me walking across the street, dragging my dropped jaw behind me. They then quickly lowered their voices, snickering their English snickers, which are much more refined than American snickers don't you know (even though they use Women of the Night, just like any red-blooded man).
I was mostly just a)impressed at the woman's sass and b)hoping that the man usually used protection when obtaining, er, services.
"Apparently, you just... run."
So I've been trying to run on a set schedule lately, and I have even managed keep it up on a weekly basis, more less, which is kind of incredible. I've always despised running. I thought it was the stupidest form of exercise imaginable. And yet, here, in Budapest, I have been able to maintain some kind of regimen, mainly because I have nothing else to do other than stay in and read. Also, the weather lately has been consistently magnificent, almost on par with San Francisco. Cloudless sunny skies, mid-70s, a caressing river breeze. Daily weather perfection. To stay indoors would be a sin. And so... I run.
My usual route takes me out of my house, across the Chain Bridge, up and around the busy rotary, up the hill to the Castle District, then through the Gate to Vienna down the other side. I could sit and marvel at the panorama at the top of the hill for hours, but I make myself run back home. Sometimes if I'm feeling particularly disinclined to keep running, I stop by the herbal garden between the Fisherman's Bastion and the Funicular, and stoop down to figure out the herbs, and rub their leaves between my hands. When I get home, I can still smell the verbena and lavender on my fingertips.
My usual route takes me out of my house, across the Chain Bridge, up and around the busy rotary, up the hill to the Castle District, then through the Gate to Vienna down the other side. I could sit and marvel at the panorama at the top of the hill for hours, but I make myself run back home. Sometimes if I'm feeling particularly disinclined to keep running, I stop by the herbal garden between the Fisherman's Bastion and the Funicular, and stoop down to figure out the herbs, and rub their leaves between my hands. When I get home, I can still smell the verbena and lavender on my fingertips.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
