To be a Hungarian



Several weeks ago I was working in Budapest. Normally, my hotel view isn't much to talk about; however, the windows on the main floor of the Intercontinental afforded a lovely view of the Chain Bridge and former royal palace across the Danube river.  I visited this view often during my stay.

 

The group meetings included a few Americans, a Polish man, a German man, and four Budapest locals. And as tends to happen when among European colleagues, there are always surprises...

 

First off, I am not certain what I think of Hungarian food in total. While I was thrilled with the abundance of items that included a version of beet root (e.g. beet root sauce, beet root shavings, beet vouloute etc.), I was equally puzzled by the abundance of mystery soft cheese filling used in the sandwiches I observed over lunch. What was it exactly? 

 

Then, there's the fact that I've technically been pronouncing the city name incorrectly all these years (as if I use it so often, which of course I don't). It is Budapest, pronounced like "Buda peshst".  You can thank the Hungarian language for that, with its German and Polish influences.

 

One particular day over lunch, I watched as the Polish colleague sat with one of the native Hungarians and they discussed history. The polish man was asking probing questions about the decisions of the Hungarians at critical times in history.  "When you were invaded ...., why did you do such and such" (as if this one man decided on behalf of his country). Mind you, I was eavesdropping so I didn't get the details, and 'such and such' will have to do. At the same time, over the course of work dinners, lunches, and phone calls, I understood another Hungarian colleague also shares this insatiable appetite for history in minute detail; discussing and re-discussing, seeking to understand and to tell.  It is as if they need to know these details have been shared, revisited, searched, and honored in some way.  That was the spirit in which the information is asked, heard, reflected upon, and shared by these Hungarians, and naturally I wondered if it reflected the norms of them all, as a people.

 

On the way back to the airport, I asked the taxi driver about the language itself.  He indicated they traditionally taught German and Hungarian in school, but now younger generations also learn English. This also meant that often the older generations speak Hungarian and German only. I said goodbye in my worst Hungarian knock off, and closed out an adventurous week on the Danube. My appreciation of history may not ever reach such proportions, but I did feel immensely grateful for the opportunity to dwell amongst it for the week.

 

I closed out the week with a welcomed nighttime view of Paris over the right wing, and well lets face it...that's never a bad way to end a day.

Daily Paris Ungrind

The Daily Grind or un-grind as it were...


On work days, rainy mornings in Paris call for a 10 min metro ride. The act of trying to wrangle an umbrella through narrow sidewalks that slope slightly toward the street, lots of glass storefronts, and an obstacle course around other pedestrians, is sometimes too much to take. I have tried it and I'm sure poked out several peoples eyes in the process.  Excusez-moi (excuse me).  Desole (sorry).  Holding my parapluie (umbrella) really high...

So on these mornings in the am on the metro, timing is everything. Since Parisians are late to arrive 'at the office' by most US standards (strolling in after 9 is normal to many), the metro can be quite crowded at this time. Today, as a train approaches the platform, there is a great sigh to see it is already filled and there are 10 people around me all looking and angling to get a leg inside, in hopes the doors will just close on us and carry us the rest of the way.

Today, there I am, vying for position politely as Parisians do. Two train 'waits' later, I get on but my face is flush against the glass door as it closes and I brace my feet accordingly so I don't fall on those around me and create some truly unforgiving domino effect. No one is smiling. A brave few are talking. Mornings in Paris are comical to me in this way, and seemingly only to me. The doors open and I am smiling as I step off onto the platform and make my way to the nearest Sortie (exit). I'll take the sardine ride any day just to be here.

If only I could remember that in the context of everyday in my life no matter where I am!

A Change in View

Last week, I tried the office location in the Grande Arche - La Defense and it was spectacular from floor 15.  It sits at the end of Metro Line 1 which runs horizontally through the center of Paris, past the Champs Elysees, ending in La Defense - a large business district. It is a huge cube that's hard to miss.

Over 20 years ago (give or take), I took a beautiful photograph of these two views below. Now, the buildings have 'grown' up around it and the view has changed. As I stood square in the center at the top of the Grande Arche steps, one thing remained the same - a linear view all the way to the Arc de Triomphe, unmistakably by design, miles away. Hello again I said. It was good to see you after all this time.

Thanks for reading.  Have a blessed day and enjoy your view wherever you are today.

Being most alive on an old random Thursday

This is an old post from July that accidentally did not get published when it was written. It was from my work and play adventures in the French West Indies. So, read on if you like and periodically fan yourself from the heat of the sun rays that beat down upon your imagination.

The point is that if we all could find a place, a passage, a hideaway, a stolen moment unseen, and if we could remember to savor the smell, sight, and sound of it – however long it lasts – we would know what it feels like to be most alive. ------------------

Our time on the islands came to a satisfying but welcoming end.  For the past three weeks, I awoke early every morning to work while the others slept. Everything kept its sense of stillness in these hours.  I saw the waves roll in, the sun rise higher, and the fisherman and pier workers begin their daily clanging, sorting, and boat preparations for the day.  We all knew to expect the humming and surging of pier construction machinery every morning (7am to be exact), an unfortunate timing of events for us during our stay.

Some days my work rolled into the afternoon; other days only until lunch, after which we’d spend family time at a beach of choice.  It was an appreciated change of scenery and rhythm in which to complete the pile of work before me.

We will not likely forget the view from the porch, the hike to the most beautiful beach we’d ever seen, or the unpleasant ferry ride over. We will recall our (almost) daily drives, like short bursts of roller coaster thrills up steep inclines and round crazy dare deviled corners. We will smile thinking of our local walks along the narrow patchwork of concrete in route to our frequented “L’Epicerie de Corossol” store, the unending swim to the sand bar, and the old woman who welcomed and waved until we had the courage to ask her to show us how she dries palm leaves to make them into various baskets, hats, and pouches while sitting on her front porch chair. She couldn't hear us well, but she was a lovely islander with simple movements and a contented smile, and we often saw her sitting with her family on the front porch in the evening.

There were daily inconveniences, creative meals, surprises, and sometimes desperate gestures to remain cool or comfortable from bugs or heat or both, but the routine settled in our mind, became known and expected, simply because we stayed for a duration of more than a few days...seeded in our soul against that paintable clear blue sky.