Saturday, as we were bumping along potholed roads through another remote Transylvanian village in our flower-child passenger van, we ran into a traffic jam. I shifted around in my seat, peering around Janos’ van, wondering why we were put-putting through this unremarkable village.
We stopped directly in the middle of the road as the unexpected rush flooded toward us.
It wasn’t a mob of reckless Romanian drivers.
It wasn’t a poky horse pulling a wooden hay cart.
It wasn’t a swarthy old man on his rickety bike or a band of barefoot kids playing in a roadside gutter.
It was a cow stampede.
There was a great shuffling of dirt-clod hooves and some annoyed mooing…and then the whole herd was skirting our three vans, swarming the entire bumpy road, casually claiming its territory as it would any other day of the week. The whole ambling herd seemed mostly unaware of (or indifferent to) our loud-mouthed group--even though we were leaning out of windows, laughing raucously, and blaring “Skater Boy” over the van radio.
I leaned my upper body out of the driver side window, trying to get an up-close shot of a splotchy white and brown cow lumbering close to the van. Breanna pulled at my arm and frantically ordered Jordan to turn the music down; she was afraid the cows would turn their stocky horns toward us and gore us right through the open window. I wasn’t really worried about it.
It was all over in two minutes and then we were zigzagging along again, laughing at the strange episode: the intersection of 90s pop music, a group of rowdy American students, and a herd of cattle in the middle of the Romanian countryside.
How bizarre.
9.27.2008
WOOL SOCKS and WARM BEDS
We bumped along through the Romanian countryside hour after hour, occasionally stopping at remote villages to herald another Reformed Church before climbing back in the vans to travel onward.
I spent much of the first two days burrowed in numerous layers and deep sleep in the yellow van, trying to combat a sinus infection and the cold mist seeping through cracks in the doors and windows.
Thursday evening, we rolled up to our final destination of the day—the Hungarian Reformed Church in Magyarlona—at around eight to hear another not-so-brief history of the archaic church and to meet our local host families for that night. Most of us were wearing most of the clothes we’d brought as the day had gotten progressively more cold and bitter……I couldn’t feel my toes even through two thick pairs of wool socks as we shuffled into the unheated church and scrunched into the unfriendly wooden benches.
The young pastor recognized our misery and compassionately kept his church history brief. We snapped out of our slightly comatose state when he mentioned “dinner” and “bed”; then he commenced the auctioning of the students to the host parents.
A short woman sporting spiky auburn hair, a pink and teal 80s warm-up jacket and a commanding personality promptly stood up, moved to the center of our mixed gathering, and firmly stated, “FOUR GURL.” She shocked me out of my cold-induced stupor: I immediately stood and three girls sitting next to me followed. We tripped after her like funny mismatched ducklings and sat in her pew, a bit stunned by the quick transaction. We were claimed.
The rest of the host parents followed suit, claiming students in threes and fours until we’d all been sorted and marked. We tottered sleepily out into the stony road, bidding our fellows good night (and good luck!), and followed our host mom halfway down the road, through a wooden gate, and straight up to her clean, modest, and modern-looking house.
We stepped inside and were immediately ashamed of what we’d expected. This was no dirt-floor shack with missing windows, a wood stove, barrel in the corner for bathing, curtain separating a makeshift bedroom from the family’s living space..….the kitchen was warm and cozy, the living room was spacious and smelled like home, and the staircase leading to three bedrooms upstairs looked new.
That night we went to bed toasty warm and well-fed from homemade goulash, parsley potatoes, black currant palinka, and good conversation with our newest friend. Before I fell asleep, I mulled over our conversation with our host mom, smiling inwardly at her effortless warmth and hospitality, at our animated laughter over her mischievous spirit, at our easy companionship around her kitchen table. God had far surpassed our fervent prayers over our interactions with the people of Romania; I hmmmed gratefully as I fell asleep and began to expect more great things for the weekend.
I spent much of the first two days burrowed in numerous layers and deep sleep in the yellow van, trying to combat a sinus infection and the cold mist seeping through cracks in the doors and windows.
Thursday evening, we rolled up to our final destination of the day—the Hungarian Reformed Church in Magyarlona—at around eight to hear another not-so-brief history of the archaic church and to meet our local host families for that night. Most of us were wearing most of the clothes we’d brought as the day had gotten progressively more cold and bitter……I couldn’t feel my toes even through two thick pairs of wool socks as we shuffled into the unheated church and scrunched into the unfriendly wooden benches.
The young pastor recognized our misery and compassionately kept his church history brief. We snapped out of our slightly comatose state when he mentioned “dinner” and “bed”; then he commenced the auctioning of the students to the host parents.
A short woman sporting spiky auburn hair, a pink and teal 80s warm-up jacket and a commanding personality promptly stood up, moved to the center of our mixed gathering, and firmly stated, “FOUR GURL.” She shocked me out of my cold-induced stupor: I immediately stood and three girls sitting next to me followed. We tripped after her like funny mismatched ducklings and sat in her pew, a bit stunned by the quick transaction. We were claimed.
The rest of the host parents followed suit, claiming students in threes and fours until we’d all been sorted and marked. We tottered sleepily out into the stony road, bidding our fellows good night (and good luck!), and followed our host mom halfway down the road, through a wooden gate, and straight up to her clean, modest, and modern-looking house.
We stepped inside and were immediately ashamed of what we’d expected. This was no dirt-floor shack with missing windows, a wood stove, barrel in the corner for bathing, curtain separating a makeshift bedroom from the family’s living space..….the kitchen was warm and cozy, the living room was spacious and smelled like home, and the staircase leading to three bedrooms upstairs looked new.
That night we went to bed toasty warm and well-fed from homemade goulash, parsley potatoes, black currant palinka, and good conversation with our newest friend. Before I fell asleep, I mulled over our conversation with our host mom, smiling inwardly at her effortless warmth and hospitality, at our animated laughter over her mischievous spirit, at our easy companionship around her kitchen table. God had far surpassed our fervent prayers over our interactions with the people of Romania; I hmmmed gratefully as I fell asleep and began to expect more great things for the weekend.
9.25.2008
REFORMED HITMEN
After Salzburg, we had three hectic days in Budapest to figure out class schedules, apply for residency permits, do a bit of laundry and then pack up again for our first group trip—Transylvania.
We stumbled bleary-eyed out the door of Bethel Gabor Kollegium on Thursday at 7am (though not quite on the dot) with lumpy stuffed backpacks, a supply of snacks for the road, and our passports…..we all hurriedly threw on extra hoodies and pulled on warm gloves as we were shocked by the sudden arrival of a chilly mist and fall temperatures that morning.
I raised one eyebrow when I saw the vehicles: three ramshackle passenger vans from the hippie era. Inner upholstery and plastic peeled away from the worn seats and dashboards, baring the aluminum inner skeleton on the floor, ceiling, and seatbacks. Each van had a characteristic decades-old must we knew would swiftly, stealthily slip into our clothing.
We nodded groggily at Janos, our Hungarian driver and itinerary planner; he stood there in his cabled sweater, hands in his pockets, instructing us to throw our bags in the back and get in the vans. In his skull cap and bearded scruff, he looked like a Hungarian member of the Mafia…or a cast member of Oceans 11.
(Later we found out that Janos is actually a pastor in the Hungarian Reformed Church; he dropped out of formal seminary training in the late 80s and early 90s to be part of the Resistance. Janos delivered bibles to villages in Hungary and Romania, risking imprisonment and persecution, whispering in parishes through long black nights, cultivating the Reformed community under the noses of iron-fisted communists.)
We immediately revered him.
His friend Robby (also a pastor in the Reformed church) drove another van. That morning he was nursing a cig and looking at us sideways from under his shaggy hair; with his dark pencil mustache, he resembled a Romanian Johnny Depp...or any other slick, swarthy vagabond. He wears a tan leather pouch on his belt that (I thought) could easily hold some sort of throwing dagger.
Our fellow student Jordan Weaver volunteered to drive the bright yellow van.
After double checking to make sure we had our passports, we sealed ourselves inside the motorized aluminum boxes with a great slam of the heavy sliding door and began our trip.
I turned around to see Van #3—Robby’s van—cough-up blackish smoke from its battered tailpipe; then our van jerked violently backward, then quickly forward as Jordan tried to shift into first gear…...
Most of us exchanged wary looks as we lurched out of the gate; we wondered when and where we’d have our first breakdown…...or bank heist?
We stumbled bleary-eyed out the door of Bethel Gabor Kollegium on Thursday at 7am (though not quite on the dot) with lumpy stuffed backpacks, a supply of snacks for the road, and our passports…..we all hurriedly threw on extra hoodies and pulled on warm gloves as we were shocked by the sudden arrival of a chilly mist and fall temperatures that morning.
I raised one eyebrow when I saw the vehicles: three ramshackle passenger vans from the hippie era. Inner upholstery and plastic peeled away from the worn seats and dashboards, baring the aluminum inner skeleton on the floor, ceiling, and seatbacks. Each van had a characteristic decades-old must we knew would swiftly, stealthily slip into our clothing.
We nodded groggily at Janos, our Hungarian driver and itinerary planner; he stood there in his cabled sweater, hands in his pockets, instructing us to throw our bags in the back and get in the vans. In his skull cap and bearded scruff, he looked like a Hungarian member of the Mafia…or a cast member of Oceans 11.
(Later we found out that Janos is actually a pastor in the Hungarian Reformed Church; he dropped out of formal seminary training in the late 80s and early 90s to be part of the Resistance. Janos delivered bibles to villages in Hungary and Romania, risking imprisonment and persecution, whispering in parishes through long black nights, cultivating the Reformed community under the noses of iron-fisted communists.)
We immediately revered him.
His friend Robby (also a pastor in the Reformed church) drove another van. That morning he was nursing a cig and looking at us sideways from under his shaggy hair; with his dark pencil mustache, he resembled a Romanian Johnny Depp...or any other slick, swarthy vagabond. He wears a tan leather pouch on his belt that (I thought) could easily hold some sort of throwing dagger.
Our fellow student Jordan Weaver volunteered to drive the bright yellow van.
After double checking to make sure we had our passports, we sealed ourselves inside the motorized aluminum boxes with a great slam of the heavy sliding door and began our trip.
I turned around to see Van #3—Robby’s van—cough-up blackish smoke from its battered tailpipe; then our van jerked violently backward, then quickly forward as Jordan tried to shift into first gear…...
Most of us exchanged wary looks as we lurched out of the gate; we wondered when and where we’d have our first breakdown…...or bank heist?
UNTERSBERG
I made it.
After nine minutes of terror, three of which were spent in paralyzing panic, I am here. In a rocky crag at the foot of a rusted steel cross. An old rugged cross that has seen the fiercest storms and the brightest sunshine.
At once I am filled with fear as the white cloudy wind whips around my cubby; with awe at the intensity of the earthy elements; with joy and wonder at the splendor of my King and his creation.
What a world.
As I was walking the steep paths around the top of Untersberg, I couldn’t stop thinking of Moses and Elijah and all those prophets who met God on top of mountains. No wonder God revealed his glory to Moses in a place like this. Mountains are holy places.
Imagine Moses (an old man in our terms) winding up through stark craggy mountain paths to meet the Living God—his feet throbbing, his calves and quads cramping from the wearying climb; he looks in anticipation toward the highest peak, thick cloudy air swirling majestically purple around it. The earth trembles under his feet as Moses crests the top of the mountain; he takes deep gulps of the fresh, light air, his chest heaving from the climb. And the Lord was there on the mountaintop.
Moses stayed on top of the mountain for forty days and forty nights in the presence of the Lord. And the Lord Almighty, the great I AM, laid down his law. A perfect and gracious rule, a renewed covenant, a shard of glass from an intricate mosaic that would be accomplished, tinted red, in the suffering glory and salvation of his Only Son.
When Moses came down, his face was radiant—gilded glory dust rubbed in his cheeks, the promise of salvation on his lips, and his task on his mind…and in his hands.
I am here to testify that the Living God is still present on mountaintops.
Not just Sinai, but Untersberg, Salzburg, Austria. To my right, all I see are clouds—white mist, and the adjacent mountain peaks barely poking through it. Behind me—deep green mountains and steadfast stone. Below—a wide open valley, long roadways that look like toy racetracks, red tiled roofs of a billion little cottages.
Smoky cloud now rolls over it all, obscuring it from view. One lone bumblebee hovers near me at the summit (where did you come from?)…and now a rumble of thunder.
How lovely is thy dwelling place.
I have never experienced the Father and Creator, the God of the Old Testament in such a rockingly powerful way before. I had forgotten that he was alive, as much as the Son and Spirit are alive.
Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation!
I will never forget this day or this moment. And I pray that his will not be the only time I so starkly see the glorious face of the Living God. If this is it--it is already more than I deserve, and I will be ever grateful. My heart delights in this sole goodness. But I have good reason and good hope for thinking I will go and meet with God again.
Praise to the Lord! O let all that is in me adore him!
All that hath life and breath, come now with praises before him!
Let the amen sound from his people again;
gladly forever adore him.
God is with us. Go and meet with him.
After nine minutes of terror, three of which were spent in paralyzing panic, I am here. In a rocky crag at the foot of a rusted steel cross. An old rugged cross that has seen the fiercest storms and the brightest sunshine.
At once I am filled with fear as the white cloudy wind whips around my cubby; with awe at the intensity of the earthy elements; with joy and wonder at the splendor of my King and his creation.
What a world.
As I was walking the steep paths around the top of Untersberg, I couldn’t stop thinking of Moses and Elijah and all those prophets who met God on top of mountains. No wonder God revealed his glory to Moses in a place like this. Mountains are holy places.
Imagine Moses (an old man in our terms) winding up through stark craggy mountain paths to meet the Living God—his feet throbbing, his calves and quads cramping from the wearying climb; he looks in anticipation toward the highest peak, thick cloudy air swirling majestically purple around it. The earth trembles under his feet as Moses crests the top of the mountain; he takes deep gulps of the fresh, light air, his chest heaving from the climb. And the Lord was there on the mountaintop.
Moses stayed on top of the mountain for forty days and forty nights in the presence of the Lord. And the Lord Almighty, the great I AM, laid down his law. A perfect and gracious rule, a renewed covenant, a shard of glass from an intricate mosaic that would be accomplished, tinted red, in the suffering glory and salvation of his Only Son.
When Moses came down, his face was radiant—gilded glory dust rubbed in his cheeks, the promise of salvation on his lips, and his task on his mind…and in his hands.
I am here to testify that the Living God is still present on mountaintops.
Not just Sinai, but Untersberg, Salzburg, Austria. To my right, all I see are clouds—white mist, and the adjacent mountain peaks barely poking through it. Behind me—deep green mountains and steadfast stone. Below—a wide open valley, long roadways that look like toy racetracks, red tiled roofs of a billion little cottages.
Smoky cloud now rolls over it all, obscuring it from view. One lone bumblebee hovers near me at the summit (where did you come from?)…and now a rumble of thunder.
How lovely is thy dwelling place.
I have never experienced the Father and Creator, the God of the Old Testament in such a rockingly powerful way before. I had forgotten that he was alive, as much as the Son and Spirit are alive.
Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation!
I will never forget this day or this moment. And I pray that his will not be the only time I so starkly see the glorious face of the Living God. If this is it--it is already more than I deserve, and I will be ever grateful. My heart delights in this sole goodness. But I have good reason and good hope for thinking I will go and meet with God again.
Praise to the Lord! O let all that is in me adore him!
All that hath life and breath, come now with praises before him!
Let the amen sound from his people again;
gladly forever adore him.
God is with us. Go and meet with him.
9.17.2008
GOING UP?
Salzburg rests just over the northern border of the Alps; though we enjoyed the grand sight of them from our hostel window, we craved a closer look at these famous mountains.
Sam found out that we could get a panoramic view of the Alps and the city from the top of Untersberg, the looming alpine mountain peak that separates Salzburg, Austria, from Bertchesgaden, Germany. We took advantage of a clear sky Friday morning and headed ten miles outside the city to take a cable car up Untersberg.
I was completely engrossed in dreams, journals, and sketches the night before while Sam and Elizabeth were making our monumental plans for Friday morning, so the reality of what we were about to do didn’t hit me until our bus pulled into the cable car station and I saw the first car lumbering out of the dock, dangling on a braided rope of twisted steel over the valley below. I just then remembered my fear of heights……right before we were about to travel 2.2 kilometers up a steep rock face in a tiny windowed metal box. Awesome.
I reassured myself that the enchanting views were sure to dwarf my fears, and besides—the ride was only nine minutes long. I was still smiling (though a bit nervously) when we settled ourselves along the windows inside the car.
For six minutes, we glided smoothly upward to Untersberg; I was stunned at the stark jagged rock face in front of us and appreciative of the lush greenness of the valley dotted with tiny red roofs below. As we neared what we assumed was the very top of the mountain, we felt a great lurch of the car and suddenly sped right over the crest of the nearest peak……only to gasp in surprise as a canyon of rock and green wilderness opened far below us and we continued to chug toward the true peak of Untersberg. Everyone else’s gasp was an “oh!” “wow!” or “incredible!”; mine was an “oh shit.” I snuck a panicked glance at my watch and realized we still had three minutes to go.
After a few more good jerks of the car on the cable, I rigidly shuffled toward the center of the car while everyone else looked down in awe. I’m sure the rest of the ride was equally spectacular, but I’d had enough to last me until we made it to the firm ground at the top.
As exhilaratingly-terrifying as the ascent was, my experience on top of the mountain surpassed everything else I experienced in Salzburg that weekend. The next post is simply going to be a section pulled from my personal journal from the hour or so I spent alone on top of the mountain.
Sam found out that we could get a panoramic view of the Alps and the city from the top of Untersberg, the looming alpine mountain peak that separates Salzburg, Austria, from Bertchesgaden, Germany. We took advantage of a clear sky Friday morning and headed ten miles outside the city to take a cable car up Untersberg.
I was completely engrossed in dreams, journals, and sketches the night before while Sam and Elizabeth were making our monumental plans for Friday morning, so the reality of what we were about to do didn’t hit me until our bus pulled into the cable car station and I saw the first car lumbering out of the dock, dangling on a braided rope of twisted steel over the valley below. I just then remembered my fear of heights……right before we were about to travel 2.2 kilometers up a steep rock face in a tiny windowed metal box. Awesome.
I reassured myself that the enchanting views were sure to dwarf my fears, and besides—the ride was only nine minutes long. I was still smiling (though a bit nervously) when we settled ourselves along the windows inside the car.
For six minutes, we glided smoothly upward to Untersberg; I was stunned at the stark jagged rock face in front of us and appreciative of the lush greenness of the valley dotted with tiny red roofs below. As we neared what we assumed was the very top of the mountain, we felt a great lurch of the car and suddenly sped right over the crest of the nearest peak……only to gasp in surprise as a canyon of rock and green wilderness opened far below us and we continued to chug toward the true peak of Untersberg. Everyone else’s gasp was an “oh!” “wow!” or “incredible!”; mine was an “oh shit.” I snuck a panicked glance at my watch and realized we still had three minutes to go.
After a few more good jerks of the car on the cable, I rigidly shuffled toward the center of the car while everyone else looked down in awe. I’m sure the rest of the ride was equally spectacular, but I’d had enough to last me until we made it to the firm ground at the top.
As exhilaratingly-terrifying as the ascent was, my experience on top of the mountain surpassed everything else I experienced in Salzburg that weekend. The next post is simply going to be a section pulled from my personal journal from the hour or so I spent alone on top of the mountain.
9.15.2008
SOUND OF SALZBURG
We enjoyed strolling through Old Town Salzburg Thursday morning, but the real highlight came later that afternoon—The Sound of Music tour! After years of hearing Mom belt out “The hills are alive…” with Julie Andrews in our home, I was finally going to see those famous Austrian hills in person. The four of us snatched window seats on the nearly empty tour bus (we were the only college students in a group of about twelve retirees), turned on our cameras, and warmed up our opera voices.
For four hours, Sue, our British tour guide, cheerily led us through Sound of Music trivia, the true story of the Von Trapp family, and the history of Salzburg. We saw every landmark, hill, vale, and flower in the movie and sang along with the soundtrack as we whizzed through the Austrian countryside. We frolicked down the lane on the way to the Von Trapp home, took pictures of the abbey, sang “I am sixteen going on seventeen” in front of Liesl and Rolf’s gazebo, and imagined seven children swinging from trees in their play clothes made of curtains. We simultaneously loathed our cheesy tourist status and relished the opportunity to romp through the live setting of our favorite musical.
That evening, we found a local hangout—Jambo World Music Café—and enjoyed each other’s company and a truer taste of Salzburg nightlife. We stepped out into the Domplatz square much later that evening and sauntered slowly back to the hostel, savoring the sound of church bells ringing faithfully over the cobbled streets of Old Town.
For four hours, Sue, our British tour guide, cheerily led us through Sound of Music trivia, the true story of the Von Trapp family, and the history of Salzburg. We saw every landmark, hill, vale, and flower in the movie and sang along with the soundtrack as we whizzed through the Austrian countryside. We frolicked down the lane on the way to the Von Trapp home, took pictures of the abbey, sang “I am sixteen going on seventeen” in front of Liesl and Rolf’s gazebo, and imagined seven children swinging from trees in their play clothes made of curtains. We simultaneously loathed our cheesy tourist status and relished the opportunity to romp through the live setting of our favorite musical.
That evening, we found a local hangout—Jambo World Music Café—and enjoyed each other’s company and a truer taste of Salzburg nightlife. We stepped out into the Domplatz square much later that evening and sauntered slowly back to the hostel, savoring the sound of church bells ringing faithfully over the cobbled streets of Old Town.
9.14.2008
TRAVELIN
Dear friends,
It has been a week since I've written. I apologize for the lack of news and am grateful for the emails you continue to send; I love to hear updates from home and will respond as soon as I can.
When we found out that classes at Karoly Gaspar had been pushed back an extra week, all nineteen of us flipped open our Lonely Planet travel books and started furiously planning last minute trips. Most of us left in a rush after Hungarian class on Wednesday, hurriedly zipping bulging backpacks, shoving extra money in our jeans pockets, stuffing apples and sandwiches in our jackets.
Sam, Elizabeth Wright, Liz Yeager, and I got on a 1:30 train headed for Salzburg, Austria--the set of The Sound of Music and the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I napped for two hours as we barreled through the Hungarian countryside; when I woke up, we were just crossing the border into Austria.
As we journeyed further into the country, the green hills rushed up around us, surprising us with quiet magnificence, swallowing our little train as it chug-chugged through villages that can only be described in words such as "quaint, lovely, gabled, fabled..." We passed sloping cornfields crowned--not with white farmhouses--but with yellow Austrian cottages laden with vines and topped with red-tiled roofs. Sigh. I couldn't have asked for a better welcome.
We hissed into Hauptbahnhof and easily found our hostel--the Youth and Family Guesthouse, Salzburg. After dropping our backpacks on bunks in room 223, we stumbled out into the twisting cobblestone streets of Old Town Salzburg (Altstadt). We found a statue of Mozart, peered in dark shop windows, admired the fortress Festung Hohensalzburg at the top of the hill, and strolled along the river Salzach.
The evening air was warm and pleasant and every light along the river seemed to be winking hello; Salzburg was tipping its hat in friendly greeting, and we couldn't wait to get to know it.
(Expect many more postings on Salzburg in the next day or two.)
It has been a week since I've written. I apologize for the lack of news and am grateful for the emails you continue to send; I love to hear updates from home and will respond as soon as I can.
When we found out that classes at Karoly Gaspar had been pushed back an extra week, all nineteen of us flipped open our Lonely Planet travel books and started furiously planning last minute trips. Most of us left in a rush after Hungarian class on Wednesday, hurriedly zipping bulging backpacks, shoving extra money in our jeans pockets, stuffing apples and sandwiches in our jackets.
Sam, Elizabeth Wright, Liz Yeager, and I got on a 1:30 train headed for Salzburg, Austria--the set of The Sound of Music and the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I napped for two hours as we barreled through the Hungarian countryside; when I woke up, we were just crossing the border into Austria.
As we journeyed further into the country, the green hills rushed up around us, surprising us with quiet magnificence, swallowing our little train as it chug-chugged through villages that can only be described in words such as "quaint, lovely, gabled, fabled..." We passed sloping cornfields crowned--not with white farmhouses--but with yellow Austrian cottages laden with vines and topped with red-tiled roofs. Sigh. I couldn't have asked for a better welcome.
We hissed into Hauptbahnhof and easily found our hostel--the Youth and Family Guesthouse, Salzburg. After dropping our backpacks on bunks in room 223, we stumbled out into the twisting cobblestone streets of Old Town Salzburg (Altstadt). We found a statue of Mozart, peered in dark shop windows, admired the fortress Festung Hohensalzburg at the top of the hill, and strolled along the river Salzach.
The evening air was warm and pleasant and every light along the river seemed to be winking hello; Salzburg was tipping its hat in friendly greeting, and we couldn't wait to get to know it.
(Expect many more postings on Salzburg in the next day or two.)
9.05.2008
LAKE BALATON
With a free Saturday stretching before us like a new horizon, we headed out with bulging backpacks for a daytrip to Lake Balaton.
We barreled southwest out of Budapest through remote countryside villages in a train that looked like a beat-up blue tin can. The frequent stops—sometimes in a secluded grove of trees or next to a dirt clod of a hill—stretched the ride into a three-hour trip; but we weren’t impatient as this was our first lengthy glimpse outside the city. The five of us—Kristin, Sam, Liz Wright, Liz Yeager, and I--spent the time gazing out the window or asking each other popcorn questions about favorites, family, music, adventures, hometowns, and other getting-to-know-you things.
It was pleasurably-filling to slurp up the greenness flashing by in a hurtling blur; I smiled at the houses all shades of yellow—citrom gelato, lemon sorbet, egg yolk, mustard, lemon meringue—they looked delicious all tucked into lush, untamed hillsides. Most were messily framed by whitish picket fences; vibrant fuchsias, reds, and fresh greens spilled over wrought iron balconies into the cheerful disarray of gardeny-lawn below. (Why is it we loved our neat, army-buzzed lawns so much in the American suburbs and business parks?)
Lake Balaton was lovely and breezy. I sat near the water’s edge with my camera and journal to enjoy it. One of Balaton’s dozens of swans swam up to me from about ten feet away; it stared at me straight on, looking haughty with its long neck erect. After a few dips to the bottom, it glided away, indifferent.
I let my eyes wander down the shoreline; the late afternoon sun made the water look like a glittering mess of bright hot diamonds…a grand casino floor showered with some high roller’s winnings.
I counted twenty-six sailboats from where I was sitting…and there were many hidden around the curves of the shore. There was a feeling of leisure and carelessness at the lake that felt far away from the busy week of Hungarian and registration, far away from tourists and trams kicking up dust in the city.
The respite was good for me; I finally had time soak in the events of the last two weeks and write down a lot of my thoughts. I was inspired to do some creative writing; I enjoyed the company of friends and the leisurely background sounds of the beach behind my own time of quiet. It will always be a cozy, friendly memory.
We barreled southwest out of Budapest through remote countryside villages in a train that looked like a beat-up blue tin can. The frequent stops—sometimes in a secluded grove of trees or next to a dirt clod of a hill—stretched the ride into a three-hour trip; but we weren’t impatient as this was our first lengthy glimpse outside the city. The five of us—Kristin, Sam, Liz Wright, Liz Yeager, and I--spent the time gazing out the window or asking each other popcorn questions about favorites, family, music, adventures, hometowns, and other getting-to-know-you things.
It was pleasurably-filling to slurp up the greenness flashing by in a hurtling blur; I smiled at the houses all shades of yellow—citrom gelato, lemon sorbet, egg yolk, mustard, lemon meringue—they looked delicious all tucked into lush, untamed hillsides. Most were messily framed by whitish picket fences; vibrant fuchsias, reds, and fresh greens spilled over wrought iron balconies into the cheerful disarray of gardeny-lawn below. (Why is it we loved our neat, army-buzzed lawns so much in the American suburbs and business parks?)
Lake Balaton was lovely and breezy. I sat near the water’s edge with my camera and journal to enjoy it. One of Balaton’s dozens of swans swam up to me from about ten feet away; it stared at me straight on, looking haughty with its long neck erect. After a few dips to the bottom, it glided away, indifferent.
I let my eyes wander down the shoreline; the late afternoon sun made the water look like a glittering mess of bright hot diamonds…a grand casino floor showered with some high roller’s winnings.
I counted twenty-six sailboats from where I was sitting…and there were many hidden around the curves of the shore. There was a feeling of leisure and carelessness at the lake that felt far away from the busy week of Hungarian and registration, far away from tourists and trams kicking up dust in the city.
The respite was good for me; I finally had time soak in the events of the last two weeks and write down a lot of my thoughts. I was inspired to do some creative writing; I enjoyed the company of friends and the leisurely background sounds of the beach behind my own time of quiet. It will always be a cozy, friendly memory.
9.04.2008
HUNGARIAN
Imagine running full speed at a brick wall, fully anticipating to be smushed into human putty after hitting it. You faintly hope you’ll slip right through……...but you hit the wall.
You are highly disoriented; you roll around on the ground in pain, eyes crossing while staring at the bleak sky overhead.
You get up.
You do it again. Full speed, hit the wall.
You do it again.
You do this over and over and over, and you don’t even see a dent in the wall. Every once in awhile, a brick flies out of the wall and hits you upside the head.
You do this every day for two-and-a-half hours.
This is what learning Hungarian is like.
You are highly disoriented; you roll around on the ground in pain, eyes crossing while staring at the bleak sky overhead.
You get up.
You do it again. Full speed, hit the wall.
You do it again.
You do this over and over and over, and you don’t even see a dent in the wall. Every once in awhile, a brick flies out of the wall and hits you upside the head.
You do this every day for two-and-a-half hours.
This is what learning Hungarian is like.
BUSZ ADVENTURE
On the way home from Szimpla, we caught the wrong bus (surprise); an English speaking Hungarian woman pointed this out to us after checking our map, and we all laughed quite heartily together.
The bus had just stopped at this point and the doors started beeping a warning that we’d be jetting off in a few seconds, but we thought we could make it out anyway. Liz Yeager jumped down three steps and out the door; but all we saw was a flash of blond hair as the green doors slammed shut once again. We looked out the back window in horror, trying to push the red STOP button as the bus pulled away.
We careened down several blocks in the bus, not knowing quite what to do…mostly we burst into hysterical laughter with the Hungarian woman who was holding her stomach, rocking back and forth, tears eeking out of her eyes. The man across from me smirked amusedly, as did many others on the bus. (We knew they were thinking “crazy Americans.”) Jordan, Jenna, and I sprinted back for Liz at the next stop…and thankfully found her. We waited an hour for the next bus with a woman and her three children from Canada and a man from Pakistan. We took mental and social refuge in our communal foreigner-status.
We finally made it home at 2 a.m., giddy about our bus-capades though definitely grateful to have Liz with us.
The bus had just stopped at this point and the doors started beeping a warning that we’d be jetting off in a few seconds, but we thought we could make it out anyway. Liz Yeager jumped down three steps and out the door; but all we saw was a flash of blond hair as the green doors slammed shut once again. We looked out the back window in horror, trying to push the red STOP button as the bus pulled away.
We careened down several blocks in the bus, not knowing quite what to do…mostly we burst into hysterical laughter with the Hungarian woman who was holding her stomach, rocking back and forth, tears eeking out of her eyes. The man across from me smirked amusedly, as did many others on the bus. (We knew they were thinking “crazy Americans.”) Jordan, Jenna, and I sprinted back for Liz at the next stop…and thankfully found her. We waited an hour for the next bus with a woman and her three children from Canada and a man from Pakistan. We took mental and social refuge in our communal foreigner-status.
We finally made it home at 2 a.m., giddy about our bus-capades though definitely grateful to have Liz with us.
SZIMPLA
When Calvin students need a hangout, we find a corner in Johnny’s, spread out a blanket on Commons Lawn, or head down to a favorite coffee shop in Eastown. So what do you do when you’ve been uprooted from all your usual haunts? You find a new one.
Friday night seven of us ventured downtown to find “Szimpla Kert,” a place some Hungarian students had mentioned to us as a popular hangout. After about two hours of walking cobbled streets in between ancient, beautifully-scalloped buildings, we found Szimpla down a dark, narrow sidestreet. It was quite eerie for a place that was supposed to be hopping with college students; we weren’t even sure we were in the right place. So we uncertainly asked two young guys walking down the street where Szimpla Kert was; they smirked, looked us over, laughed a bit and said “just follow us.”
We passed two bouncers at the door and ducked inside.
It immediately became my favorite place in Budapest. We maneuvered through open rooms of graffitied stone and muted green, brown, red and blue walls; old relics—a 40s-style car, bicycles, a pommel horse, bathtubs—made makeshift seats or interesting decorative pieces; all the tables and chairs were beat-up benches and picnic tables, green and white wrought iron chairs, folding chairs, or wooden spools. Sweet smoke hovered in the air over small groups of Hungarians and International students, laughing, chilling, sipping wine and telling stories.
We ate a cheap, delicious dinner upstairs and looked over the black wrought iron balcony to the hubbub of people in the open air courtyard below. The rest of the Calvin group showed up later and Liz Yeager and I stayed with them late into the night, basking in the evening air in the courtyard, delighting in new friends while enjoying the babble of many languages wafting upward and around the space like fine incense. It was a beautiful thing.
Many days we will go there for a cheap meal or a cup of kave with our Lit books, journals, and thoughts.
Friday night seven of us ventured downtown to find “Szimpla Kert,” a place some Hungarian students had mentioned to us as a popular hangout. After about two hours of walking cobbled streets in between ancient, beautifully-scalloped buildings, we found Szimpla down a dark, narrow sidestreet. It was quite eerie for a place that was supposed to be hopping with college students; we weren’t even sure we were in the right place. So we uncertainly asked two young guys walking down the street where Szimpla Kert was; they smirked, looked us over, laughed a bit and said “just follow us.”
We passed two bouncers at the door and ducked inside.
It immediately became my favorite place in Budapest. We maneuvered through open rooms of graffitied stone and muted green, brown, red and blue walls; old relics—a 40s-style car, bicycles, a pommel horse, bathtubs—made makeshift seats or interesting decorative pieces; all the tables and chairs were beat-up benches and picnic tables, green and white wrought iron chairs, folding chairs, or wooden spools. Sweet smoke hovered in the air over small groups of Hungarians and International students, laughing, chilling, sipping wine and telling stories.
We ate a cheap, delicious dinner upstairs and looked over the black wrought iron balcony to the hubbub of people in the open air courtyard below. The rest of the Calvin group showed up later and Liz Yeager and I stayed with them late into the night, basking in the evening air in the courtyard, delighting in new friends while enjoying the babble of many languages wafting upward and around the space like fine incense. It was a beautiful thing.
Many days we will go there for a cheap meal or a cup of kave with our Lit books, journals, and thoughts.
9.02.2008
LESSONS
Over the next few days we registered at the university, met a few Hungarian students, learned how to grocery shop, and started Hungarian lessons.
Our instructor Kati smiles much more than any Hungarian we’ve met; she is kind and understanding and tries to make our two hour lessons fun and practical. For example: just when our brains were starting to wilt, Kati clapped her hands, ordered us out of our seats, and played a Hungarian version of “Simon Says.” She is always willing to answer questions on which trains to ride, what allergy medicine to buy, where to get our favorite foods, and what restaurants to avoid.
I cannot pronounce any of the “o” or “u” vowels very well and forget most of what we learn. But we are all struggling together; that first day, our group erupted in laughter after collectively slaughtering words and phrases such as “Hogy hivnak?”—“What is your name?”—and “Magyrorszag”—“Hungary.”
We try out the words we learn at the coffee shop down the street and around Budapest, but, as we are horrible at pronunciation, most people just respond in English…or with a puzzled frown. Kati tells us our first “test” will be at the market—we’ll use our limited vocabulary to order fruits and vegetables from the vendors. Ha. Good one, Kati.
Our instructor Kati smiles much more than any Hungarian we’ve met; she is kind and understanding and tries to make our two hour lessons fun and practical. For example: just when our brains were starting to wilt, Kati clapped her hands, ordered us out of our seats, and played a Hungarian version of “Simon Says.” She is always willing to answer questions on which trains to ride, what allergy medicine to buy, where to get our favorite foods, and what restaurants to avoid.
I cannot pronounce any of the “o” or “u” vowels very well and forget most of what we learn. But we are all struggling together; that first day, our group erupted in laughter after collectively slaughtering words and phrases such as “Hogy hivnak?”—“What is your name?”—and “Magyrorszag”—“Hungary.”
We try out the words we learn at the coffee shop down the street and around Budapest, but, as we are horrible at pronunciation, most people just respond in English…or with a puzzled frown. Kati tells us our first “test” will be at the market—we’ll use our limited vocabulary to order fruits and vegetables from the vendors. Ha. Good one, Kati.
CHURCH
Sunday morning (24th) we went looking for the Church of Scotland/Hungarian Reformed Church. (Professor Smidt and his wife Marilyn had suggested it as one of the few English services in Budapest.) We left an hour before the service started to give us a time cushion in case we got lost; thankfully, we found Prof. Smidt and Marilyn after getting off Tram 4…we were about to get on the Metro heading the wrong way.
The Church of Scotland is tucked wall-to-wall in a row of antique buildings on Vorosmarty utca; we walked through the heavy, centuries-old wooden door and made our way uncertainly toward the sanctuary. But we had nothing to worry about—we felt like long-time members as everyone greeted us warmly before the service.
The congregation is small but quite diverse with Iranians, Hungarians, Sudanese refugees, Russians, Americans, Afghanis, and Scots all worshipping together, as one body with one heart and mind. (How wide and deep is the love of Christ! Amen.) We had a glimpse of the scandalous grace of Christ and the Shalom of the coming kingdom. I can’t wait.
The Hungarian Reformed Pastor—Otto—had a way of phrasing his words that turned my eyes and heart over, writing on them with the words of Christ as if for the first time. One thing that especially struck me: Pastor Otto’s “congregational prayer” was a focused prayer of the congregation for the burdens of the whole world—not a list of petitions for the congregation itself. We prayed with one heart and mind for the sick, lonely, and handicapped; for children in global conflicts “that they might know God’s love in the hands of his angels, whoever and wherever they may be”; for those who are close to conviction but don’t think they are good enough for God’s grace; then finally a few simple petitions and prayers for their own congregation. It was wholly sincere and reverent…and turned our hearts outward to other people’s suffering.
We resisted the urge to clump in our Calvin group at coffee time and started shaking hands with members of the congregation. First Pastor Otto, then the senior pastor, Aaron, who immediately wrote down our emails. We met Joe and Kathy, Americans who helped serve lunch; Tim, a native Nigerian who has been living in Budapest for six years--he gave us tips on where to find Hungarian folk music, affordable groceries, and good weekend hiking trips; Alan, who moved to Budapest from London two years ago for his Hungarian fiancée; and two older gentlemen—John Veros and George.
John didn’t speak a word of English but simply went around kissing all the girls’ hands. George and I talked for a while; I listened intently to his broken English as he patiently struggled to string together words and sentences I would understand. Occasionally he’d run over to Pastor Aaron or Pastor Otto for an English translation. I learned that the church was formerly a school George attended in the days of Soviet occupation. He had six Russian lessons a week and only one or two English lessons. Though George wanted to learn English, the Russians restricted it. “Russian…Russian esh bad. English good.” He frowned and shook his head as if shaking off a pesky mosquito. “No Russian.”
When we left, we were filled up and running over with good fellowship. We will go back often.
The Church of Scotland is tucked wall-to-wall in a row of antique buildings on Vorosmarty utca; we walked through the heavy, centuries-old wooden door and made our way uncertainly toward the sanctuary. But we had nothing to worry about—we felt like long-time members as everyone greeted us warmly before the service.
The congregation is small but quite diverse with Iranians, Hungarians, Sudanese refugees, Russians, Americans, Afghanis, and Scots all worshipping together, as one body with one heart and mind. (How wide and deep is the love of Christ! Amen.) We had a glimpse of the scandalous grace of Christ and the Shalom of the coming kingdom. I can’t wait.
The Hungarian Reformed Pastor—Otto—had a way of phrasing his words that turned my eyes and heart over, writing on them with the words of Christ as if for the first time. One thing that especially struck me: Pastor Otto’s “congregational prayer” was a focused prayer of the congregation for the burdens of the whole world—not a list of petitions for the congregation itself. We prayed with one heart and mind for the sick, lonely, and handicapped; for children in global conflicts “that they might know God’s love in the hands of his angels, whoever and wherever they may be”; for those who are close to conviction but don’t think they are good enough for God’s grace; then finally a few simple petitions and prayers for their own congregation. It was wholly sincere and reverent…and turned our hearts outward to other people’s suffering.
We resisted the urge to clump in our Calvin group at coffee time and started shaking hands with members of the congregation. First Pastor Otto, then the senior pastor, Aaron, who immediately wrote down our emails. We met Joe and Kathy, Americans who helped serve lunch; Tim, a native Nigerian who has been living in Budapest for six years--he gave us tips on where to find Hungarian folk music, affordable groceries, and good weekend hiking trips; Alan, who moved to Budapest from London two years ago for his Hungarian fiancée; and two older gentlemen—John Veros and George.
John didn’t speak a word of English but simply went around kissing all the girls’ hands. George and I talked for a while; I listened intently to his broken English as he patiently struggled to string together words and sentences I would understand. Occasionally he’d run over to Pastor Aaron or Pastor Otto for an English translation. I learned that the church was formerly a school George attended in the days of Soviet occupation. He had six Russian lessons a week and only one or two English lessons. Though George wanted to learn English, the Russians restricted it. “Russian…Russian esh bad. English good.” He frowned and shook his head as if shaking off a pesky mosquito. “No Russian.”
When we left, we were filled up and running over with good fellowship. We will go back often.
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