APPLE PICKING

[croatia trip]
The fog stretched far, dense across every field and the one long dirt road. From where we stood, I could barely see the plain white spire of the church just at the crook of the road, beyond the row of floating houses. The air was a moist wooly cloak filling our lungs with wispy wetness, slowly making little drops on our noses and hair.

I peered sharp-eyed straight down the newly planted orchard row. Walnuts.

My hands were already blistered from the thick wooden handle of the spade. I had jabbed it into the black earth with much gusto, exhilarated by good, hard work.

Walnuts. Those were the new trees. But the oldest in the middle was an apple, heavy with mostly rotting fruit, fermenting with the hazy smell of those that had already fallen in the tall grass around its trunk.

We found a tin bucket and started hucking fallen apples at the good ones still on the tree. (A fresh snack to go with our morning tea time.) I accidently stuck my thumb in a soft spot, brown juice running down my thumb. The smell was strong and sweet.

Huck! Missed. Huck! Already on the second try, two had been hit and had fallen with swift thuds. Huck--Thwack! More apple pellets falling falling falling.

Soon my hands were sticky; me shaking them in the cold air, running round and round the tree picking up the spotty yellow and red-tinged apples. We'd churned up the dirt and mushy apples below with all our squirrel-scampering that the air was a thick sphere, we in its midst, all dripping honeylike with fermented apples and wet grass.

BRIGHT BLUE

This morning I woke up to one of my last days in Budapest. The sky is bright and everything feels like it should be colored sunny yellow--all happy and energetic, warm, homey.

Out my window, a woman is airing a bright blue quilt, stark and pretty against that impersonal tan communist block apartment.

Since I've written, I've done a bit of traveling in Western Europe--just Amsterdam and Vienna though. (No Big Ben or Eiffel Tower in sight for this trip.) I have good stories from these cities too, and I will continue to post on the blog during Christmas break and after, when I am less busy and more rested….and after I've mulled over a few things.

Really, the most remarkable places I've been on this trip have been in Eastern Europe. Occupation has ruled the Hungarian (Magyar) people since the beginning of their thousand-year history; first the Turks, later the Hapsburgs, Nazis, Communists…other peoples have trod heavily on them, squelching, burning, snuffing out history and culture and religion with hobnailed boots. But still--that blue flame flickering across the way.

Budapest is bulging bright with vibrancy…its not like cruelty and oppression haven't left their thick swollen scars--they are everywhere. Sorrow and hardship are in Magyar voices, in their anthems, their economy, cityscape and countryside, hunched shoulders. But in spite of all this, we've been kissed on both cheeks when arriving and departing from villages; we've laughed and clapped like little kids at folkdance performances and the symphony; we've been encouraged and invested in by our Hungarian professors; we've been surprised with opportunities for discovery every day in the city.

I'm doing all I can these last few days to gather, protect, slurp up and save every sight and memory. And I think when you ball it all up and look at it, the impression isn't dark and stained or sad--rather, Budapest comes out looking bright blue and hopeful. This image of the scarf-clad woman hanging out her window, her bright blue quilt--this is how I will remember Eastern Europe.