CHAPTER 1 of "Magyarorszag Memories"

CHAPTER ONE of Magyarorszag Memories © 2007 All Rights Reserved.

by Mark C. Fearing, Ph.D. 

* Dedicated to the Loving Memory of Ivan “Ike” Orloff and Jim Ployhar
To Mom & Dad, Joe & Peggy Fearing

Special thanks are also due to my voluntary editor, Charles Martin of the University of North Texas for his many insightful comments on this work.

A chapter of this novella, Magyarorszag (Hungarian) Memories (2007), has been published online in an international literary forum, IRODALOM, at http://www.groups.yahoo.com/group/irodalom/message/9408

CHAPTER ONE:  ARRIVAL & FIRST COMMUTE

The man braced himself from the cold and took stock in his dilemma:  Here he was on a different continent, a different world, really.  Snow was falling and his teeth chattered.  “I’ve never been this cold in my life,” he thought to himself.  He thought back on previous times, warmer times, which were not so removed in time, though very much removed in geography, when he’d been offered the chance to go overseas while his doctoral program classmate and best friend languished in the decidedly more hospitable climate of Madrid, Spain.

“If Dave could see me now, he’d probably have a good laugh,” he thought.  “Didn’t know I signed up for the Siberian Shift,” he chuckled.  Shuffling his already wet Nike Air Cross-Trainers, he vowed to make the best of a bad situation and find some food for the night. 

He walked around the block to find what shops might be open at 9PM on a Saturday in Budapest, Hungary.  He passed a store that had the remnants of loaves of bread, and pantomimed to someone that he, too, was hungry.  That was met not with indifference, but outright malice, as if to say, “How dare you put yourself in our bread line.”  He decided he was committed, however, and persevered. 

When he reached the end, or ‘check-out’ (in the States), he gestured “how much” to the surly man behind the counter, who replied “tiz forint.”  He pulled a colorful bill from his wallet and offered it to the man, who promptly snatched it up and offered him a handful of more “funny money” and many heavy coins.  “Guess that completes that transaction,” he thought to himself.

He headed back outside, pulling up the collar of his red Lands’ End sailing jacket to keep his neck warm and walked along the sidewalk, peering in the windows of the various shops, noticing a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka in one of them.  “Well, this is close to Russia, the source,” he thought.  “I wonder what it goes for in Hungary?”  He opened his wallet and signaled the shopkeeper that he wanted to know how much it was.  “I should have majored in International Sign Language at U of H,” he mused.

“Nyults forint,” was the answer.  Unsure what this meant, he again offered a pretty colorful bill to the man behind the counter.  The shopkeeper glared at him as if he had made some unpardonable sin and gave him his change.  “I have no earthly idea what I’ve actually spent.  They could be taking me to the cleaners for all I know.  I just hope Hungarians are an honest people.”

Before actually leaving the shop, however, he noticed some, what he assumed was gigantic beer bottles labeled “Holsten Sőr.” “Guess that’s Hungarian for beer,” he thought. “I bet that’ll come in handy.”  He grabbed a couple of the hefty half-liter bottles and placed them on the counter.  “These, too, he said to the man who, he knew, had no clue what he was saying.”

The snow began to come down even more heavily than before, if it was possible, and his thoughts turned toward finding his flat, which was supposed to be paid by his new employer, Nemzetkoezi Menedzer Koezpont (International Management Center) in the                      pretty “Buda” part of Budapest.  The city, he had read, was divided into two parts, the hilly Buda part, and the dingy industrial “Pest,” separated by the picturesque Danube River, called “Duna ” by the locals.

His flat was in the vicinity and the Dean of The Management Center, Dan Fogel, would let him in at 9:30.  He would be paid in the local currency, Forinths, some of which he had gotten at the airport for his American Express Traveler’s Checks.  He glanced at his watch. “9:20.”  He had better make his way to the flat or risk missing Mr. Fogel.

458 Batheny Utca was the address.  He looked at the street signs plastered on the walls of some tenement apartment buildings.  “So this is my new neighborhood,” he thought to himself.  “Not really how I pictured it,” he mused.  “Places are rarely what you imagine them to be.”

As he trudged through the freezing slush, he finally came upon his building, a tall grey Cold-War Era structure.  The flat was actually leased from an elderly Hungarian couple by the Management Center.  He would be paid for his work at the Center, with the opportunity to earn additional income teaching at the local university, Karl Marx University of Economic Science. 

His heart raced as he climbed the narrow stairway up to the first floor.  The prospect of meeting his new boss made him excited, but a little nervous.  His palms felt sweaty and beads of perspiration ran down his neck and face in the frigid building.

Arriving on the first floor, he made his way to #29, his new Hungarian home.  With anticipation he knocked on the door.  “Come on in, Jim, it’s open,” said a friendly American voice.  He opened the door to see a friendly, quick-mannered man with a broad smile on his face.  “Dan Fogel,” he said, extending his arm.  “I’m dean at the International Management Center.  We’re eager to have you working with us.”

After a pause he continued, “Come on the #49 Train tomorrow down Batheny and get off at the third stop.  We’re in the Big White House on top of the hill.  Ask the Train conductor if you get lost. Everyone knows where we are.”

“In the meantime, I’ll bet you’re hungry.  You can ask Janos and Hildi across the landing to cook your meals, wash your clothes, and anything else you can think of.  See you tomorrow, Jim, and welcome to Hungary.”  Mr. Fogel turned and headed for the door.

“Hope he’s right about everyone knowing where they are,” he thought.  And how am I supposed to communicate with other people?  I certainly hope my experiences in communicating get better.  The Fodor’s Hungarian phrase book I got in Houston only has so many sayings.”

He looked at the limited language resources he had at his disposal:  A slick, colorful Fodor’s “Hungary” and a small red Hungarian-English/English-Hungarian Dictionary.  “Maybe I should look these over for tomorrow,” he thought.

Turning to the page on pronunciation, he read:  “In Hungarian, the combination of the letters ‘g’ and ‘y’ make a “dyuh” sound.  Hmm, this language may be a tad more complex than I thought.  I’ll read more about it in the morning.”

The next morning he awakened with the sun and went to work practicing his Hungarian pronunciation; there were some commonalities between his mother tongue and the new language, or between it and German (which he studied in both high school and college), but not many.  He later learned that the language it shares common roots with is actually Finnish, another tongue difficult for Americans to learn.

“I’d be better off trying to learn Mandarin,” he despaired.  Still, he worked at learning “emergency” Hungarian:  How to say you can’t speak Hungarian, “Tuts Angolul?”; How to count to ten; Hello; Goodbye; How to ask where the bus stop is; please; thank you; and, of course, how to order a beer:  Nagy Sűr, Kőzőnum Säpen.

Armed with his knowledge of “pigeon” Hungarian, he descended the staircase and went out onto the street, where he was treated to his very first case of “Budapest Eye,” a malady he would tolerate throughout his stay in the country caused by the air pollution from too many diesel buses and little two-stroke engine-powered Trabans from East Germany.

He was a short walk from the bus and tram stop, fortunately, and even the main rail station, Dèli Palyudvar, and subway, the Metro.  It would take him a little time to learn about getting around in his new home city, but once he did it would be as natural to him as it was to the natives.

He decided it was time to take the plunge and go to work:  His first Hungarian commute.  He went up to a sign on the median of the street with a 49 on it and tried to decipher the schedule.  “I wonder if they have paper versions of these like they do in Houston,” he pondered.  Wish I knew how to ask someone.”

As he was thinking this a train rumbled up behind him.  It stopped, the doors opened, and people piled out with stoic expressions on their faces.  The folks stared at him like he was sideshow freak.  He climbed the steps of the tram and looked around; everywhere he looked people just continued to stare back – with cold, but proud eyes. He sensed an inner strength about them.

The train began to move with a jerk and he positioned himself between an old lady dressed in a drab grey overcoat and a young man in his 20s smiling only slightly and with bad teeth.  At the front of the train the conductor rattled off something to the passengers in short, halting bursts of undecipherable jargon, probably even to Hungarians.

The tram moved along at a good clip through trees bent over with burden of winter, and then passing by a lovely bridge with stone lion head carvings.  He thought to himself it was like being in a movie or consuming dream, so vivid was it.  He considered himself lucky to be in such an historic place at such a dramatic time in history.

Moving through a crossroads, the train pulled up to a stop, the doors opened, and a few people jumped off, saying not a word amongst themselves.  Again the conductor announced something and the passengers either ignored him or this was part of their daily routine.

“This is going to be fun riding the tram everyday to work, I can tell already,” he thought, as a wry smile crossed his face.  “I just hope I can blend in eventually, but without the long face.” 

In the distance a white mansion with what appeared to be a guard hut out front emerged.  “Guess that’s it,” he thought to himself.  What a grandiose place.”

He jumped off at the tram stop and walked up to the guard hut.  After some time a man with a ruddy complexion appeared.  “Bèsalul Angalul?, he said in his best pigeon Hungarian.  The man gave a confused expression and reached for the phone.  He dialed a number and hurriedly spoke into the phone.

“You are Jim?,” he said in heavily accented English.  “Yes, that’s right,” he answered.  “You go to door and enter.” the guard continued.  The man was unsure if this was a request or instruction.

“Mr. Fogel will be there,” he said, beaming.  It was clear that his knowledge of English was getting a work-out.

The man started climbing the steps leading up to the door, excited at the prospect of beginning work at this new entrepreneur resource center in a newly-democratic country. 

The MBA students would be executives of formerly state-run enterprises, such as Vegyeptzer Rubber Factory, and would come from a wide variety of backgrounds and aptitudes.  The actual classes would start very soon.  Now it was time to meet the staff and colleagues he would be working with.

Walking around the Center was awe-inspiring:  The center was actually an old house owned by Hungarian Royalty.  Everywhere one looked traces of its former function could be gleaned:  An opulent carpeted staircase was the central feature of the old house. 

Patched holes from a dumb waiter could be seen in the Training Room.  The central office was stocked with their state-of-the art telecommunications and office equipment, though it would have been considered outdated in the States.  The office staff seemed quite friendly and accommodating.

It was time to meet the colleagues with whom he would be working for the next several months, but first it was time to visit with Dan Fogel, the dean.  “Come and sit down and let’s visit,” Mr. Fogel started as he settled into his high-back swiveling executive chair.  “I hear you have caught the eye of Jack Ivancevich in Houston.  Good man, Jack, and a great academic.  Tell me, what are your areas of expertise?”

“Organizational Behavior and Management, but I can also teach into the areas of Human Resource Management and Entrepreneurship.  I think that’s why I’m here.”

Mr. Fogel knitted his brow and leaned back in his chair.  “Very good, let me give you a quick tour of our facilities and give you the chance to meet your office mate, Wilfried.” 

Fogel immediately turned and with a quick pace headed out the door.  Jim began to feel that his new boss was the sort of person who got things done whether you were ready or not.  He headed down a corridor that smelled of fresh paint and began his commentary: 

“We just finished renovation on this section of the building.  Most of the paint isn’t even dry.  It was quite an undertaking converting the home of Hungarian Royalty into a training facility.  Entering a long room with windows at one end, he said,”This was the dining room.  You’ll notice the holes for the dumb waiter have recently been patched shut.”

Exiting the training room, he headed to the right and entered the central office, buzzing with the hubbub of a busy day.  He was introduced to Gabi, a dark-haired beauty with a vivacious personality and to Eva, the communications person, who kept tabs on the Center’s small fleet of buses and cars.  Several other workers were introduced to him, but he felt overwhelmed meeting so many folks in one day, so took no mental notes of them.

Just when he was catching his breath, Jim noticed out of the corner of his eye a well-dressed man with an engaging smile and eyes.  This was Wilfried Vyslozil, a young  Austrian college professor from Salzburg, who would later be affectionately dubbed “Slozy.”  Wilfried would be Jim’s office mate and carpool friend for the next six months and throughout his stay in Budapest.

Then it was time to see his new office.  Jim and his guide and Wilfried continued walking down the hallway until they were outside a smallish office with large windows with a view of another fine house next door.  Wilfried’s (and now Jim’s) office mate, Joe, was resting up after class.  “Joe, meet Jim, the new instructor from Houston,” Wilfried said.  He’s gonna tell us all about life in Texas.”

In perfect English Joe said, “Nice to meet you, Jim. How long have you been in Magyarorszag?” 

“Just since last night.  Haven’t even unpacked yet or seen much of the city.  But I have encountered a few of the locals.  Not a very lively bunch.”

After a pause Wilfried said, “We’ll have to show him the sights, then, Joe.  And you should go to one of the Turkish baths on Margit Insel under Szechenyi Lànchid, the chain bridge with the carved lion’s heads.”

“Oh, yes, I saw that on the way in this morning on the tram,” replied Jim.

“You should get a massage and sit in the sauna there,” continued Wilfried.  “Budapest’s famous for its bathhouses and natural springs. And we should take Jim out for a sűr, don’t you think, Joe, to welcome him to Budapest and the Center?”

“Definitely. We don’t usually have much to celebrate around here,” answered the man.  “How about tonight after work?”  “Sounds great,” said Jim.

“It’s settled, then.  We can all go in my car after work today.  Gotta warn you, driving in this city can be really like taking your life into your own hands…and other drivers.”

“Sounds an awful lot like Houston, where I’m from,” countered Jim.

“You’ll see soon enough,” said Joe.

As the morning wore on, the pair worked away on developing syllabi and first day lectures, and Jim familiarized himself with his new working environment as best he could without knowing the language, with people popping their heads in the office door and introducing themselves.

“Yeah, like I’m gonna remember Hungarian names,” he thought.

After coffee break at about 3:00, Jim felt very tired, but knew he couldn’t take a nap or leave, so he went outside to have a look around.  He strolled around the grounds imagining what it must have been like for the royalty who had lived there previously.  There were gardens that must be quite nice in the springtime on a nice day, but this day was bleak and bitterly cold, so he headed back inside to warm his bones.

As the clock approached 5:00, he noticed his colleagues starting to prepare to leave for the day and followed suit, putting on his jacket for the umpteenth time of the day.

They exited the room together and headed downstairs, Wilfried in the lead.  As they entered the parking lot, Joe led the way to Wilfried’s car, a second-hand but very nice Peugeot. 

Unlocking the car, Wilfried said, “The usual place?”  Hardly looking at him Joe just nodded, almost imperceptibly.  Joe hopped in the passenger seat with an ease that suggested they’d done this many times before.  Starting the engine and putting on his safety belt, Wilfried pulled his French car down the long driveway, past the guard shack with nodding security guard, and out onto the city’s streets.

They drove at such a breakneck speed that Jim was glad he had on his seatbelt, the icy neighborhood blurring into one streak.  They would slow down for a moment, but just as quickly speed up again, so Jim suspected they were getting close to the destination. 

The car slowed to a crawl, as all three of them peered out the windows into the gloomy winter urban landscape.  They pulled up in front of a “Sűr bar,” or beer bar in Hungarian.  This was to be Jim’s first experience of “living it up” in Hungary, and he was quite excited at the prospect.

As they entered the bar Jim noticed patrons staring at him, but not out of rudeness, but likely just curiosity – as they hadn’t many Westerners come in to this particular establishment, except the occasional Austrian or German.

“Jo Regelt,” said the bartender, eying each of them carefully.
“Jo Regelt,” both of Jim’s companions echoed, then Wilfried added, “Tesek Harum Nagy Sűr, Kőzonum Sapen.”

The man quickly turned to the beer taps, and produced three large, ornate drinking vessels from under the bar and began filling them, the head overflowing slightly.  He set them in front of the thirsty men and said, “Tesek.”

Wilfried and Joe picked up their glasses and ceremoniously said, “Ĕgysegydre,” to each other.  Jim knew instinctively that they must have said, “Cheers” to one another, but didn’t want to intrude on their moment together.

The three men raised their glasses, and exuberantly drank, downing most of the cold, bubbly liquid in their glasses.  Jim felt a little lightheaded after this and took a moment to steady himself, leaning against a chair for balance.

Gathering himself, Jim gazed in blissful silence upon the scene, remembering past such celebrations and thinking to himself that he had found a happy home in this newly-democratic country.