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.