Hungary Heritage Moment: Why they don't cheers beers here

I tipped my pint of beer in for a cheers and my Canadian friend got serious, leaned in and said Hungarians only started cheers-ing their beers again recently when the 100-year ban was lifted. “But there are still old school guys who would frown on you for doing that.”

This was my first night on the town in Budapest. We had been cheers-ing and clunking glasses with co-workers at a wine bar all night, in the Hungarian-style: shouting, and mispronouncing, “Egészségedre.” When we switched to beer, it supposedly wasn’t cool anymore.

I was curious. A strange rule banning beer glass clinking for some randomly appointed term? So I did some homework.

In 1848 cities all over Europe were in the throes of revolution, inspired by liberal and nationalist ideals. Everything looked promising for the masses. Kings were overthrown, tyrants were in retreat, people were voting and parliaments were being convened – 1848 seemed like a European Spring.

Hungary was no different. As part of the Austrian Empire at this time, protests hit the streets for more autonomy. A parliament was soon convened, rights were granted and independence was declared. Battles were won and things looked promising for the Hungarians.

Then, after decades of keeping them out of Central Europe, the Austrians desperately asked Imperial Russia to help put down the popular uprising. The czar’s army invaded, pretty much blowing the whistle on an independent Hungary. Everywhere else, the initial hope of the revolutions evaporated as kings and emperors retook their thrones.
 
The Hungarians made it clear they were surrendering to the Russians, not the Austrians. Not really caring who surrendered to whom, the Austrians began executing and imprisoning members of the Hungarian independence movement. 

As the story goes, 13 generals were rounded up and executed in Arad. As this was happening, a few Austrian generals were off to the side, pounding down beers, cheers-ing, loudly clanking their beers, and celebrating their "victory" – pretty much acting as despicably you can at a hanging.

This frat boy behaviour inspired a 150-year ban on cheers-ing beers in Hungary – no one I’ve asked knows why the ban lasted for 150 years. No one even has a theory, it was just a round number or something. So, people could clink their wine glasses, their Palinka or their juice boxes, but apparently not beer, until 1999, when the statute of limitations on beer glass clunking expired.

Like any nationalist emotion, some people carry a grudge for a long time, but most Hungarians I've asked about this episode aren't very concerned about it, if our beers-cheers-ing wasn't evidence enough. It seems to be a nationalist tradition that many no longer abide by.

But some people still hold old nationalist grudges near and dear to their hearts in this part of the world. No one has told me to stop when I've loudly, and debaucherously, cheers-ed my beers with expats and Hungarians alike, but my friend's warning sticks with me and I still look over my shoulder when I do this.

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A note about sources. Information about the cheers-ing incident comes from the internet: Google, Wikipedia, The Economist, and bar-room chats with Hungarian friends. Background about the 1848 revolutions came from memory of history lectures long past and 1848: Year of Revolution by Mike Rapport, which you should read.

The Astute Commute

A confession. Last night, as I was finishing an amazing post for the blog, I somehow deleted the word file. So I'm posting a quick update while I try to recreate that blogpost's amazing-ness from memory. I hope this post is some recompense while you wait for me to weigh in on, wait for it, vegetables in the next post.

I'm taking the metro (the subway, as my Toronto brethren call it) less frequently to work and have been making the trek over the Danube River to catch the tram more frequently. It's the scenic route, since it adds five to ten minutes more to the commute, but it's a rewarding trip.

Consider this: I make a daily routine out of strolling past the Banks of the Danube, which is listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The tram line runs along the Danube, then cuts behind Castle Hill to the metro station near my office. So, during my commute, when I look out the window I'm treated to riverside views of the city and the old palace. Not a raw deal, methinks.

The ride is a bit too bumpy to risk taking low quality photos, but here's one from my walk over the bridge. It's like caffeine for the, no, it's still not quite like caffeine, but it is breathtaking (note the tram I just missed, drat!).

Then I get to see things on the tram-ride home that look beautiful even in last night's rain (apologies for the not so good cellphone photo quality, you will have to use your imagination):

Anyhow, it's much more incredible to behold in person and so much easier on the eyes than a train ride underground.

Major Magyar Miscommunication

My first Hungarian lesson? Tejfol is sour cream, not yogurt.

As a budding, bashful French student in Montreal, I frequented a coffee shop every morning run by a few pretty girls. I developed a neat, tidy morning routine with all of them, and a healthy infatuation with one of them. Every morning, I’d order my coffee in French, one of the girls would switch right to English, and I’d slink out with my coffee, humbled.

After a week of similarly clumsy chats, I finally worked up the nerve to ask one of the girls why they switched to English. It had nothing to do with being snooty, she said, and had everything to do with hearing my Ontario accent then switching to English to accommodate me and speed up the transaction. I insisted that we speak French, for my benefit, every morning if there wasn’t a line-up. I would accept the struggle.

One of my favourite Hungarian language stories is also a French one.

During my second week in Budapest, I was still living out of a hotel on the Buda side of the river, but missed the last metro on the Pest side. I went to a cab stand and, with a combination of sloppy Hungarian and with my hotel address scribbled on a scrap of paper, I managed to negotiate a rate and communicated the location of my destination.

The cabbie spoke as much English as I spoke Hungarian, which is very little. But I spoke as much French as he did, which is just a bit. So off we went, over the river and into the Buda hills, practicing our French.

In the world of languages, Hungarian truly stands alone. It was decided to lump it into a lingual family with Finnish and Estonian but, from what I hear, the similarities extend to a handful of words. Every expat in my office, no matter what language they speak, have difficulty wrapping their heads around this language. It is a special case.

As someone who had never had an ear for languages, it is especially difficult for me. I will walk into a grocery store and say a quick greeting in Hungarian. I get what seems like a kind reply (hopefully), which I don't understand, so my reply is a vacant stare and an awkward shrug.

There is certainly some room for improvement. 

It's those embarrassing moments where I recall that part in the Matrix where Keanu gets those fighting skills downloaded into his head, and I wonder if I can skip this struggle with the language and download some basic communication skills between my ears.

So many Hungarians I know admit their language is a difficult, esoteric one and they are extremely understanding and gracious about so many foreigners wandering around with little ability to learn it. But I get all self-conscious when I can't complete a basic transaction with the cashier for my muesli.
 
I’m starting to make a modest effort here and there. For example, when I went to the market this past weekend, I wrote my grocery list in English and Hungarian. I also tried to use Hungarian numbers, though when I went over ten I busted out the old vacant stare and awkward shrug.

But learning a language is a long, tough process, and it's in the struggle that I learn the most. Those morning conversations in that Montreal coffee shop were some of the most horrendous things to happen to the French language. While I never was able to go out with my coffee girl crush, those clumsy little talks were important for me in developing French conversation skills that went beyond discussing the weather.

In a country with so many patient people, I have to remind myself to embrace the struggle. I must quit dreaming for a Keanu-style instant language brain download and remember that learning Hungarian, or any language, means putting myself out there enough to get a little embarrassed sometimes.

Dealing with the Darkness

The Hills of Buda, as seen from my office window at 4pm

By now folks back home are likely commenting on how it's getting dark earlier in the day, vitamin D supplements are flying off the shelves, and the Mordor references are being bandied about the water coolers again.

Budapest has them beat: It’s dark by 4pm – it is Mordor here.

The other day, I lost track of time and looked out the window to see a dark night sky above and street lamps on below. Afraid I missed an opportunity to take an afternoon nap (clearly, this wasn’t a work day), I checked the time. It was 3:30pm. There was plenty of time to nap and plenty of time after the nap to reflect on the blackness outside.

It’s also a little soul-crushing in the afternoon when you look out the office window and see the black night sky staring back at you. And another thing: because it gets dark earlier, I get tired earlier. There have been some nights where I feel like I’m ready to crash at 8pm. This is a vibrant party city, I should not feel like a narcoleptic!

All of this can be attributed to the ridiculousness of the Central European Time Zone, in which Budapest is on the far Eastern end. The name itself is a misnomer. Madrid and Budapest share the same time but are 2500 km apart – almost the breadth of Europe.

The only time zone more ridiculous is China, where Beijing time is imposed on Kashgar – 4375 km away, on the Western edge of the country. The sun rises there at 10am. It’s still dark there when you wake up and go to work. Riots over state discrimination against ethnic groups flared up there a few years ago, but I’m certain internal clock issues were lurking beneath the surface.

Back in Budapest I’m happy to report there are no riots. Only darkness. Cold, bleak darkness.

The Great Hungarian Apartment Hunt

In Budapest, you never judge a building by its lobby.

As I mentioned in the last post I finally have an apartment in Budapest. Now that I’m slowly adjusting to life with a toilet in a tiny closet far, far away from the rest of my bathroom fixtures, I can reminisce about the apartment hunt that got me here.

The Great Budapest Apartment Search is a rite of passage for every expatriate in my office. Everyone arrives in Budapest and is put up at a hotel on the company dime for two weeks. In those two weeks, you must get over jet lag, get over the culture shock, get used to a fast-paced job, adjust to a so-so hotel, deal with the language barrier and find an apartment before you’re homeless.

Everyone is curious how your hunt is going and happy to help out, because they’ve all gone through it. But it’s a lot like talking real estate in Toronto, everyone is also comparing apartments. Not in a negative way, but in that vicarious way you find yourself looking at other people’s domiciles.

Despite all the stress, there are upsides. Rent in Budapest, compared to other European capitals, is inexpensive. Great transit makes the commute to work easy no matter where you live. Plus, many apartments are decadently large. Look hard, choose wisely, and you’ll walk away with a nice home.

Despite world wars, invasions and a few occupations, downtown Budapest has many century-old apartment blocks. These are buildings of the old-style: a thick-walled structure built around a courtyard. You enter your apartment from an outdoor walkway along the courtyard. The apartments have massive windows, 20-foot ceilings, with an area between 70 and 90 m² for a one bedroom flat. That ‘m’ is for meters, folks.

I had heard about this, but didn’t take it completely seriously until I visited my first apartment. Most are even in great condition, despite their age. The buildings themselves are a whole other thing. Some are clean and well-lit. Others would be incredibly hazardous to traverse in night.

The third apartment I visited would have excited a horror movie location scout. The courtyard balcony was so dark the real estate agent couldn’t unlock a door without the light of her phone. Just steps away was a recess where I’m very certain there was a staircase – it was so dark and dank a bridge troll could have been living there. Inside, the apartment itself was very pleasant.

I might have had a Bridge Troll for a neighbour. 

I will point out now that in Budapest the landlords hire real estate agents to help rent out their places. This is awesome because, aside from having an expert that knows the lay of the land, I wasn’t plan on answering Hungarian craigslist ads and getting kidnapped and sold into white slavery. I’ve seen Taken, and that’s not going to be me.

Some real estate agents are a bit, well, clueless. I was shown an apartment at a square where Budapest’s metro lines all link at one station belowground. Aboveground are restaurants, boutiques, swank pedestrian avenues – all smack dab downtown. I was a little surprised the real estate agent found a place within my price range here.

It was owned by an Italian landlord who bought one large Budapest-style apartment, renovated it and divided into three small one-bedroom apartments. With its high ceilings, the apartment was higher than it was wide. While in the puny kitchenette, I looked to my right, out the front door, and realized anyone walking down the corridor could see straight in and catch me making my breakfast in my pajama-jammies. And it was €100 over my budge – an easy one to walk away from.

But then there are tough choices. One of the last apartments I looked at was a modern apartment. It had normal ceilings, normal square footage and, on the ninth floor with a balcony, had a beautiful view of the city, the basilica, the citadel, and the Buda hills. It was stunning.

The hitch? It was such a small space, made smaller with the gigantic furniture crammed in there, then made even smaller with the landlady, real estate agent, myself and a random Czech guy (a temporary tenant) all shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling awkwardly at each other. After the quick tour, the landlady was started repeating herself, the Czech guy was smiling and walking about like a Festrunk Brother from SNL, and even the real estate agent was looking uncomfortable. So we made a quick getaway.

In the end, I went for my current apartment. When I looked at it the first time, the real estate agent (my favourite of the lot) gave me the tour and then left me alone to “see if I see myself there.” It worked. The lobby might look like a catacomb, the hardwood floor is a bit rough and there’s no elevator, but the location is prime, the space is huge, and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else right now.

My modest living room.

Potty Talk in Hungarian

I have a Budapest apartment. This means I am officially no longer some duffel bag nomad living in a hotel.

I'm feeling great right now. Although that feeling fades a bit when I consider my apartment-finding-ordeal, but that blog post is coming.

But I want to discuss something else.

Some Hungarian bathrooms are different. Here, you do not take care of your toilet business in the same room you wash up in.


The toilet is in a separate room from the sink and shower/bath tub. The real estate agent said it was normal in Hungary. My new apartment is set up this way, and there hasn't been a mix-up yet.

My office’s facilities are set-up in the same manner (no showers or bath tub, sadly). You walk through an outer door into the room with the sink and mirror, then an inner door with the toilet. The inner door locks, the outer door does not


I think it’s a practical, civilized design. Why wash where you excrete things?

Now, not that I would ever do this, but what if, after your business, you sneak in a quick pep talk to yourself because it might be your first week at a new job and you're a bit stressed? And what if someone walked in through the unlock-able outer mid-pep talk?

Well, that would be embarrassing... Not that it has ever happened to me.

I've pretty much been sleeping the last few days

The hills of Buda, the Danube in the distance, and an airplane wing in the foreground. Yet another display of my groggy post-nap pre-landing photography skills

I have arrived in Budapest. Apologies for the lack of postings. Up until today I've been walking through a jet laggardly haze. 

In other news, I have started my job and don't suck at it.

Under normal circumstances a new city, new language and a new job would be an overwhelming combination for me to deal with. But I’m still a bit too tired to be completely aware of these things. Except for the language, some interesting times are ahead of me with this Hungarian language.
 
This will have to be a quick post since I’m still catching up in sleep, learning about a whole new set of brands and trying to remember 50 new colleague names. But! I’m looking for an apartment, and apartment hunting in a beautiful, yet formerly East Bloc city, promises to be a blog post and a half.

Going Hungary

I've moved out of my Toronto apartment yesterday. The day after tomorrow I fly to Budapest. Then next week I start a new copywriter job at an ad agency there.

Originally, my inaugural post on this blog was going to be about how frightened I was over not being frightened about the adventure I was undertaking. But the frantic pace of tying up the loose ends of my life here took up all my blog-writing time.

Now! Now that everything is in motion, a roiling sensation of nervous excitement is emanating from the pit of my stomach. As I triage my belongings for the fresh start over there and cram in some basic Hungarian language skills, that feeling just grows.

But based on previous adventures into elsewhere, I know it won't completely hit me until I land in Hungary (see doodle of possible reaction above). You're all panicky and excited and humbled all at once. My next post will likely be all about that.