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.