More like Neo-Cit-wrong

When I first got here, people told me, "get ready to be sick a lot, and never really get better." I consider myself to have a fairly strong constitution, so that didn't worry me much. How bad could it really be, right? I mean, we're in a developed country, there's modern medicine and hospitals. Once again, I forgot that I was in Hungary, where things that ought to be easy aren't easy, and things that are difficult are damn near impossible. Well, I just got over a three-week cold, and I use the term "over" loosely. My throat still hurts and I still cough constantly, and the best anyone can offer is this lemon powder crap called "Neo-Citran," which, judging from the ingredients, is no more than vitamin C with sugar. You're supposed to mix it with your tea or some hot water. I thank God for whoever invented Ibuprofen, because it was the only thing holding me together the last week. Naturally, they don't have it here. I honestly don't know what they do on a day-to-day basis. Was that really Annoying-American just now? Probably. I don't care, I call a horse by its true colors (??).

In other news, Budapest has experienced its first real snow of the season. On my morning walk to the Metro, I found the Parliament gloriously sprinkled with snow, and it looked quite nice with the blue skies. To find the sky blue, not gray, was also an unusual and happy turn of events, so I decided to document it.

We're talking real snow here, at least 3 inches, and it actually stays on the ground and doesn't melt! Everyone was so excited about it that we even had extra garden time at the kindergarten all week to play in sub-zero temperature and poke at icy packed snow with little shovels. I sound cynical but it really is fun.

I haven't written about work much yet, mainly because I hoped that 1.5 months in I would sound more cheerful about it, but alas, it's definitely a mixed bag of tricks, many of them not the fun kind. I should start by saying that my kindergartners, though very mischievous, are absolutely amazing kids. I already love them as if they were my babies.


There's about 35 of them, and they range from 2 to 7 years old. Of course I have my favorites, but they are all (okay, with one or two exceptions) funny, clever, amazingly sweet, and they all look like they could be in Welch's juice commercials. If it wasn't for my bitch of a boss, this job would be perfect. I look forward to every day there, because I walk in the door, and they smile at me, and hug and kiss me, and that feeling of gratification is so indescribable and sweet, it's worth going through my mornings at the high school just for that.


As for the high school... it's a toughie. I teach 14 different classes of 9th to 12th graders, each between 12 and 18 students, and I only see each class once a week, at most. It's pretty much impossible to remember their names or build any kind of rapport, especially with the 9th and 10th graders whom I only see twice a month. Many of them can't even say the most basic things in English, nor do they care to learn anything, so it's been an enormous challenge. Discipline has been next to impossible to maintain, since teachers aren't allowed to send kids out to the principal (why? why?! it makes no sense), and I've had to tell numerous students to take out their headphones or stop texting. I spend at least 60% of class time telling them to be quiet. Of course, there's only about 4 or 5 really bad classes. The rest are quite amiable, and fairly well-behaved. I even have a few students who are very gifted and actually think my presence might be useful to them. Those are the kids I come to work for, the engaging, friendly ones. I just try to remind myself that I can learn from every single student I teach, be it in a good way or a bad way, and it really helps.

Anyway, I'm still happy to be here, though I miss home terribly (and reading Little Women hasn't helped one bit! Darn it all, I'm going to Concord, Mass. first thing when I get back). I'm learning oodles of noodles about myself, my priorities, etc, and I know I couldn't do that back home.

Posta Horrors

So on Monday I received a slip in the mail from the Posta (it's "Poshta," you know), and went to retrieve my package only today, Friday, not because I didn't want it -- in fact, I wanted it desperately -- but because every single person I've talked to regarding the post office, American and Hungarian, rolled their eyes in exasperation and pity. So I've sort of been dreading it, and now I know why.

The little slip of paper directed me to a branch in my district on 16 Bajcsy-Zsilinszky St, which I couldn't even find on GoogleMaps. I decided to bite the bullet and just wing it once I get off the metro, since I've been on the street before. I got redirected by nice Hungarians a few times, until I finally found Bajcsy 16, only to end up staring at what was clearly a residential courtyard and no official-looking post office in sight. A kindly, bearded Hungarian let me into the stairwell and pointed towards some snivelly-looking door by the garbage bins, which actually turned out to be the selfsame Posta. Did I think to myself, "Why is there a handwritten sign that says 'Posta' on the door? Why did I need a door code to get into a post office?" Sure, all those questions and a million more ran through my head, but I've been in this country long enough to know that when facing a situation which makes zero sense to an American and every bit of sense to a Hungarian, asking why will get you nowhere. The answer to "why" is usually "it's just Hungarian/Hungary".

So, I went to this post office, wandered around the inexplicable maze of deposit boxes and desks, until a postal worker finally walked by me briskly. I cleared my throat and said "erm, bocsanot?" and the man turned around a bit fazed. I handed him the slip. He asked me something in Hungarian, to which I shrugged and said the one full sentence I know, roughly translated to "no comprendo, pal." He looked around and asked if anyone spoke English (of course no one did), scratched his head, then wrote something down. It was all gibberish to me, natch. I shrugged again. He then pointed at the wall for some reason, quite emphatically, and I became alarmed thinking I was in some weird 'government officials only' part and the man was telling me I knew too much now. How I determined this from his gestures, I don't know. Finally, he wrote down "BAJCSY 14," just like that, in all caps, as if I were a moron, then pointed to the wall again and said, "BAZILIKA!" Understanding dawned on me, and I yelled "Ertem! Ertem!" then proceeded to make my escape to the ACTUAL post office, which was and always has been next door, across from the Basilica on 14 Bajcsy. Obviously.

The real Posta wasn't that much better, actually, and I had to do the same ridiculous non-English pantomime, but I did get my package. And Meredith, in case you're reading this, when I accepted my package and read on the front: "(1) Calendar, (3) chocolate chip cookies," I definitely started crying. I wasn't even feeling particularly homesick today or anything. I don't even know what the people at the post office must have been thinking.

Anyway, Lesson Learned About Hungary #453537846: Avoid the post office if possible.