Memories of an Old World

My second international trip was to Hungary at 16-years of age.  Hungary is a landlocked country, one of the oldest in Europe.  It is rich in history, which can be seen in its Roman, Turkish and Greek influenced architecture.  And the remnants of Communism is still evident within its borders.  Known for their folklore music, hot springs and yummy food, it is truly a beautiful country.

In an attempt to literally put distance between me and my then boyfriend (now ex-husband), my Mom shipped me and my sister off to Hungary for the summer of 1997.  Guess I should have listened! Anyway, I digress.  We went to stay with my grandparents who lived in the town of Tiszalök. I remember it being small and kept thinking how everything just looked so outdated.  I remember being a frustrated teenager thinking life was unfair.  Interestingly though, I now remember how Hungary humbled me.  My trip to Hungary was life changing. It is what ignited my sense of wonderment about the world beyond what I was used to.

I carried a simple Kodak 35mm camera.  You know the ones that you had to take to your local WalMart and stand and watch as your film developed into hard copy pictures you held in your hands….hence the quality of the photos here.  Aah the good ol’ days.   Very few people spoke English and the TV only spewed out shows in German or Hungarian with German subtitles.  The streets were mostly made up of small dirt roads, and with the exception of a car here and there, traffic was composed of older women wearing flower dresses, babushkas (head scarfs) and clogs.  A group of neighborhood kids laughing, as they let their imagination run wild was also a common occurrence. In my eyes, life was wonderfully simple.

My grandparents were conservative, as is much of their generation.  My first day I was eager to go out and explore.  I dressed in the staple American uniform of a 16-year old: blue jeans and a T-shirt.   As I walked into the kitchen where my grandmother was preparing breakfast, she turned around to look at me and I just saw her jaw drop.  She began yelling something out in a mixture of Hungarian and English to the effect of “you look like a poor girl, blue jeans are not allowed, go put on a dress and fix your hair!”  My grandmother told me women never wear blue jeans outside of the home.  She wore her best outfit, donned a face full of makeup and her pearl necklace every time she walked outside of her home, even if she was just running a quick errand to the grocery store.  At the time I was furious, but obliged.   As we were out I began to observe the women and how they were dressed.   For the most part, if they were not in their homes everyone was neat and dressed up.  It made an impression on me, but being the American raised girl that I am, not one that would ever make me give up my jeans.

Much of my time was spent playing games with the neighborhood kids, meeting family, and most importantly eating at my grandmother’s- aunt’s-second sister’s-third cousin’s restaurant!  I am still a little foggy on the true family link.  My sister and I were invited to the back kitchen and to help prepare the meals.  Afterwards, the adults of course also made us do all the cleaning! But, it was worth it! All the ingredients that made up our meals were fresh. We had different soups with hand rolled pasta, spicy paprikash chicken, stuffed cabbage, freshly baked bread, and much more.  I can still remember the aromas fill my nose, as my aunts and grandmother laughed and chatted in Hungarian .  I felt like I was in the kitchen back home cooking with my family. The food was amazing and to this day I do not think I have ever been able to enjoy a more authentic and homey meal.  It is funny how the environment in which you eat influences your taste buds.

At the suggestion of my Dad, my grandfather decided to take us to see Budapest.  He was a complex, stern, and serious man measuring about 6’3.  A survivor of the Communist regime who was forced to leave my grandmother and father to slave away at a work camp. He grew up in a very corrosive environment that hardened his demeanor.   Initially, the stories I heard of him made me fear him.   At the time we were visiting, my grandfather owned an older, small, two-door Volkswagon that made you root for it like “the little engine that could”.  My grandmother, my sister and me all piled into the car with my grandfather.  As we drove, neighbors who were walking down the street would wave to my grandfather who would then stop and chat with them.  He would always introduce my sister and I.  He even picked some of them up and gave them lifts to their destinations, as we went on our route.  It was another side I got to personally witness; one that made him more approachable.  After that day, I spoke to him more and surprisingly he warmed up to us.  He played the piano for us, danced in the living room with us, and even played pretend restaurant with my little sister.   I was fortunate I got to spend time with him and listen to some of his past.  

That was my trip to Hungary.  I remember returning home and speaking to my parents about what we did.  My mother was upset because she did not feel we were really able to experience Hungary, as we did not go do all the touristy stuff.  At the time I agreed.  However, my travels in the past few years made me realize just how unique and special an experience I was given.

I got to live within another culture and observe the day to day… what they really eat, what they speak about at the dinner table, or over a cup of tea while sitting on the porch, what they wear, what their jobs are like, how the current political and financial infrastructure affects them, and how history has changed them.   These are experiences that I seek out and yearn to stumble upon in my travels now.  Thank you Hungary!