Itthon (At Home)

The 1996 Summer Olympics in Mayview, Missouri 

"Hungary, I choose Hungary because I'm always hun-ga-ree,” I said on the crumbling stage in front of my entire school. 

Each fifth grade student had chosen a country to represent and write a paper about for our Olympics-themed track and field day. My research for the project began by cutting and gluing a construction paper flag: horizontal thick layers of red, white, and green. Snickering erupted from the audience of about 50 fifth and sixth-graders. Two silver aluminum foil-wrapped cardboard medals hung around my neck; one medal for the 100-yard dash, the other for a relay with South Korea, France, and Greece. 

I waved my construction paper flag. “I represent the country of Hungary. It is an interesting country, with a unique language and beautiful countryside. There is a mixture of cuisines on their plates. They are hun-ga-ree people! Hungary is surrounded by other countries, meaning it is landlocked. The Danube River flows right through the middle of the country, but they have lots of droughts. The Soviets just left there a few years ago, so now they are free.”  

 The crowded gym slow-clapped at my presentation. I sat down, the aluminum foil medals oozing Elmer’s glue onto my red, white, and green flag. I laid my face in my hands; sweat pooled in my palms from nervous embarrassment. I told myself I would make it across the ocean someday and get out of this small, backwards town. 

 The “Pest” Part of Budapest 

Budapest is the capital of Hungary and is made up of two cities on either side of the Danube: the royal capital of Buda and the commercial town of Pest. Less than 150 years ago, the two finally united to form Budapest, one city with two differing identities. 

I step out and face the courtyard of a dingy yellow building at Muranyi Utca 4; a dense smog falls onto my scalp. A stone building with 24 units, one being my flat, smells of mildew and freshly baked bread. I count 45 narrow marble steps spiraling down, which end at a door with red stained glass that’s lit from behind with what looks to be a chandelier. To the right, two giant wooden doors open to the main street of Rákóczi út on the Pest side of Budapest, Hungary. 

Pest is a populous city – flat like a prairie and filled with restaurants, cafés, bars, theaters, and the grandeur of Parliament’s neo-gothic monster built on the Danube River with a fulgent stare. This part of the city is busy, buzzing with eclectic railway stations constructed with open-air platforms and high stone arches.  

To the east, the sun rises and lights up the train shed of Keleti. “Üdvözöljük, a vonat a keleti pályaudváról indul!” (Welcome, the train is leaving Keleti railway station!) To the left, there is a split-flap display from the 1960s where departure times scroll daily. I am wrapped in a long wool dress coat as I hurry past the old station, down the stairs of an opening like a black hole in the middle of the sidewalk, down to the new city below of up-to-date metro subways and computerized displays. 

“Hun-ga-ree, I am living in Hungary.” I giggle to myself as the billboards around me contain letters with dots and accents.  

I hand my one-inch-wide ticket to a man in an old conductor’s hat, he asks, “Lakos?” (Resident?)  

I say, “Igen” (yes), and spin the metal bar, stepping nto the quiet space of the metro. 

Buda Mornings 

The Budapesti Metró travels under the Danube River, from Pest to hilly Buda. The Hungarian kings and their successors, the Habsburg Emperors, covered their hilltop with a swathe of striking monuments, from the the Neo-Romanesque Fisherman's Bastion to an extravagant Gothic-style castle. A stroll through Buda's narrow cobbled streets reveals medieval houses and grand Baroque mansions.

The doors open at Batthyány Tér, the first stop after the river. I run through the train’s doors at 9:00 am, five days a week. I go up the stairs to the cloudy sky, quickly rushing past the bronze statue of a man wearing a Christmas-colored sash and holding a guitar. Up a hill past a café with the scents of carrot ginger soup, and around the corner. I arrive at Bertalan Lajos u. 17, 1111. Agnes answers the buzzer of the Ulysses Hungarian Language School.  

With heavy breathing, I burst in through the door. "I know I'm late. I’m good at it." 

Agnes, the school director with a stern voice and a soft smile, held me once when I was cramping so bad that I could not stand. Agnes is a woman in her late sixties who started a language school because she believes Hungarian is the most beautiful language of all. 

She peers up over her spectacles at me, "Magyarul kérem. (Hungarian, please)."

I slouch in shame, struggling to remember the words; this language was nothing like my own. "Ma késő nap? (Late in the day today)"  

I know that is wrong. Frantic, I nod to Agnes and slip into the classroom on the left: the one for beginners.  

Hogy Mondod Azt (How Do You Say)  

Magyar (pronounced /Mawdyar/), as the Hungarians call their language, is spoken by the approximately 11 million inhabitants of Hungary, as well as another 4 million people (about twice the population of New Mexico) in neighboring countries, and a million others scattered around the world. It belongs to the Finno-Ugric language family, which includes Finnish and Estonian, but its closest relatives are several obscure languages spoken in Siberia. 

The Hungarian language is systematic; once the learner knows how to pronounce the letters, anything can be spoken or read. The only problem for English language learners is that Hungarian has a total of 14 vowels. The language has the basic “a, e, i, o, u” but Hungarian also includes a further 9 variations on these: á, é, í, ó, ö, ő, ú, ü, ű. The pronunciation of each is slightly different and can change the meaning of a word completely.  

According to my Hungarian language professor, Lilli Be, “Megszentségteleníthetetlenségeskedéseitekért” is the longest word in the language at 44 letters. It means something like: because of your behavior or your actions. This word does not translate to English. Most Hungarians do not even know what it means. 

Lilli Be 

In my seat, I stare in a daze at my language teacher, Lilli Be, a twenty-something with wide hips, full lips, a few freckles, and mocha bobbed hair. She smiles. "Jó reggelt kívánok. (Good morning)."  

Gosh, I love her. She is multilingual, educated, and independent in her pursuit of multiple careers. Most women I have met in Hungary are not allowed to work multiple jobs at once. Lilli Be juggles graduate school, private music lessons, language teaching, a freelance job she mentions from time to time, and a boyfriend named Janos. A tall, skinny, balding disc jockey, Janos mixes at the Szimpla Kert, a food market by day and dance club by night, where bikes hang from the ceiling and quilts wrap around broken-down vehicles from the Communist Era. This club is where people sit and drink palinka: a strong fruit spirit that’s good at altering my decision making. 

Hungarian City Men 

Besides Janos, every Hungarian man I have met in this country is the same. Their moms still drive to the city to take out their son’s trash. I am living with one, a Hungarian man-friend named Zoltan. He is a tall, skinny, smelly-cheese-loving traveler who laughs nervously when people tell him he cannot do anything for himself. I flush the toilet when he forgets. I lock the door when he’s on Tinder dates until 5:00am. I navigate this city alone, go to the opera alone, sit on Shabbat alone. Zoltan’s shy, enabling mother, Margo, drives her Audi for two hours to take out his trash. He sits and watches her clean his kitchen counters, then he blends into the background with the rest of the men in this city.  

A Weekend Excursion 

"Natalie, Natalie, are you with us?" Lilli Be snaps her fingers to bring me back into the classroom. "Stay after class, we need to talk, English, not Hungarian."  

The school day ends with Túró Rudi, a popular curd snack bar in a thin layer of chocolate, enclosed with a wrapper covered in hearts. Lilli Be takes me aside and asks me to join her for a weekend trip to the Hungarian-Serbian border. I roll my tongue back flat after speaking Hungarian with it has arched and pressed it against the back of my teeth.  

I take a bite of my curd bar covered in chocolate staring out the window across the city of Budapest to the outer rim where I have yet to explore. “I would love to go.” 

I step into Lilli Be’s white, rusted two-door car parked around the corner from the school. I stuff my backpack on the floorboard and sit staring out the car window as we pass over the Rákóczi Híd, which is the southernmost bridge across the Danube River that connects Buda and Pest. As the city ends, the beginning of classism appears out of the winter’s fog. Homes with windows broken out, roofs half missing, children and families sitting around fires in the yard. For the next two hours, beside the intermittent appearance of farmland, the picture of poverty stays the same. 

Refuge 

Razor wire lines the border between Hungary and Serbia. Erected after the 2015 crisis when more than a million migrants—many of them refugees from Middle Eastern conflict zones—reached Central Europe. George Soros, a billionaire and investor, created camps to house hundreds of children from many countries. The Hungarian government considers this “aiding illegal immigration.” Viktor Orbán, the prime minister of Hungary, seeks to arrest all of those affiliated with aiding or abetting refugees. 

Subotica (Refugee Camp) 

We pull up outside of a secluded area wrapped with barbed wire fences and tents made from draping tarps.  

Children from a variety of cultural backgrounds run out from behind the trees, smiling, shouting, "Lilli Be! Lilli Be!"  

I stand stunned, still, repeating in my mind, “Hun-ga-ree, these people are what make up Hungary.”  

Lilli Be turns her full brown eyes towards me and says, "I have brought you here to teach them, don't worry about Hungarian, they don't know it. Teach them about love, healing; whatever it is you taught in the States, do that here. They need you. You need them. Welcome to Hungary. Egészségére. (Cheers)."  

Sitting on the wet ground, my face falls to my hands. I imagine myself standing in the elementary school gym wearing my two aluminum foil medals dripping Elmer’s glue, waving my construction paper flag decorated in Christmas colors, feeling alone, bullied, different. I know that pain, but I know nothing about the pain of losing one’s home, family, and culture. My 11-year-old self must have known that someday I would be sitting in mud, two hours outside of a bustling Eastern European city, looking into the eyes of children from war-torn countries waiting to be heard, to tell their story, and to feel welcome in their new home called Hungary.  

Preparing to Return 

After four months, with an expired passport and no working visa, I must return to the States. There is an uprising happening within Hungary’s political division. Orbán is challenging free thought in universities; he is also making working with refugees a crime, which will result in imprisonment. Lilli Be stays at the camp to help them move to a more secure, discreet location in Serbia.  

I take the train back late at night, alone, to my apartment in Budapest. My smelly-cheese-loving friend has just returned from a month in Rome. I rush inside and fill the tub with hot water and Baba Soap: a sweet-smelling almond scent and a delightful reminder of a place, one I cannot find in the United States. I wrap a robe around my body and step out to sit on the cold stone in front of the French doors facing the courtyard. I light a Senator cigarette from a pack I picked up for 585 forints or two US dollars, at a small Nemzeti Dohánybolt (National Tobacco Shop) around the corner; Zoltan rests next to me and bums a drag.  

I lay my head on his shoulder, whispering: “Itthon” (At home), Itthon vagyok Magyarországon,” (I am at home in Hungary).

Image courtesy of the author

Rose Gove lives in Denver, Colorado and is preparing for their move to New Orleans, Louisiana this summer. They are an MFA student at Queens University of Charlotte in three genres which are a part of the Latin American track. Gove writes poetry, creative nonfiction, and short fiction stories about travel, the nearby neighborhood, and the everyday moment. Follow Gove on Instagram @nnnaatttt