Turkey part II (continued): hard to get to!

As the train screeched slowly to a halt, I threw my hands up at the border guard in frustration; really? I need to go back for a ticket? I just dragged this luggage over all those tracks! It's okay, leave it. Hurry! I ran back toward the station, head heavy and knees wobbly from exhaustion. In this half awake state, everything felt muted: my thudding footsteps, the stressful call of the border guard to hurry, the beating of the train wheels over the rail links, like it was all echoing in a distant tunnel somewhere.

In a panic I began to slam the ticket window with an open hand, very loudly. A disheveled ticket agent crawled out of a back room somewhere and began to hand write me a ticket. To where? Edirne, I answered. Istanbul? No, Edirne, before Istanbul. Ok, she affirmed, Istanbul. No! (I made sure not to shake my head in Bulgarian acknowledgement.) Edirne. Edirne. Edirne! I tried to pronounce it in Bulgarian: add-rrree-an. She looked me in the eye and asked: Edirne? Yes, yes, Edirne... Please. Please hurry! She rolled her eyes and showed the cost on her hand. It was remarkably low, maybe $3. I dropped the exact change, snatched the ticket and ran back out, hoping the train and my luggage were both still there.

They were. It seemed like I didn't really need to hurry after all. After some minutes standing around outside, someone directed me and the Turkish couple into a door which put us in a cramped space between two rail cars. I could see the guards I met earlier unscrewing ceiling compartments and inspecting any spaces with flashlights. Then one stuck his head in and took our passports. We stood there for about 20 minutes, leaning as much as possible for some fatigue relief. I couldn't help but keep thinking that I could have stayed a few more hours in Sofia, strolling around and seeing the sights, and would now be comfortably snoozing in one of these sleeper cars. I still had no plans for my 3 am arrival in Edirne, Turkey. I sent a message from Sofia to Nurullah, my couch-surfing host, to tell him I'd only stay one night with him after all, since I wouldn't make it tonight.

When the border guard finally returned with our passports, he said wait here. The conductor came by shortly after and said: you stand here. Stand here?!

You know that spot between two train cars, the one that people like me peek into to hear the roar of the train, to see the ground blurring by through the gaps? That forbidden zone you might cross, desperate to find a toilet in the other car? That spot with a small arm underneath, holding the two cars together, covered in corrugated metal sheets sliding over each other? That's the spot where the Turkish couple and I had to stand, for some reason. Like an insolent child, I went into the train proper, to have a look around. Sleeper cars, perhaps all of them, but some of them empty and others half full. Why can't I crash in one of these? The conductor passed again and pointed back to that awful space between the cars; you stand! Why? He ignored the question and insisted. I muttered, in vain, that they should consider being nicer to their tourists, but I obeyed, sighing dramatically. Anyway it wasn't very far to Edirne, I guessed.

All attempts at small talk with the Turkish couple were fruitless. This cramped space was way too loud anyway. They asked me a couple times if I was going to Istanbul. No, Edirne. It seemed no one believed that I'd stop anywhere before Istanbul. The train stopped in under half an hour, at a station, perhaps a village, on the Turkish side which I still don't know the name of. Now everyone had to get out of the train. When i stepped down into the quiet, cool night, my ears were ringing. With great disorganization, we crossed some tracks and bunched into a big plain room, painfully lit too brightly by fluorescent lights. My ridiculous place on the train afforded one small advantage, I was almost at the front of a long line. We waited about 20 minutes before someone appeared behind the barred glass, looking sleepy like all of us. We were a remarkably multicultural group. At my turn I presented my passport proudly, but the official frowned and told me to go outside and buy a visa first. I'm from Canada! A blank look. Where do I buy it? You'll find it, he says. I saw an American on his way back who pointed out the window I needed. $60 U.S. for a visa?? And they don't take credit cards. A moment of panic as I dug out my well hidden money pack. I used up all my Euros for small emergencies already, and had $80 U.S. in my emergency reserves. There goes most of it! He stuck three $20 visa stickers in my passport. I pleaded that I'm only staying for 6 days, but it didn't matter. He returned my passport and I saw that the stickers began to peal off already. For $60 I expect quality glue! Then I had to get to the back of the line I was recently smug about being at the front of. I heard some Americans in line and told them about the visa requirement to save them some time. They returned, grateful, and I discovered it was only $20 for them. We joked about discrimination against Canadians and they were appalled that I had to stand between train cars.

One by one we piled back onto the train. I wandered into a sleeping car, hoping to at least find a seat on the inside. I didn't want to sleep since Edirne would be easy to miss, and I estimated that it was less than an hour away. The conductor came and told me that I must exit the train. Why?! It's not your train. But it goes to Edirne! Get off. Catch the next one. The next one?! It was now 3 am. He said my ticket is no good. I showed that it was for Edirne, but he said it's the wrong kind of train. I put up a fuss. Americans popped there heads out of their comfy sleeper cars, wide eyed. They looked sympathetic as they watched me get escorted off the train. Perhaps they really did have something against Canadians! But the Turkish couple were kicked out too. They seemed annoyed but were not verbal about it. "I can't believe this place! (But I wasn't really clear about which place I was referring to.) You need to be nicer to your tourists!" I doubt the conductor understood me anyway. Then, grumbling under my breath, the three of us stood on the platform, as a light rain began to fall, and just stared sadly at the train as it crept away in front of us. If I didn't have a huge bag, I would have been tempted to climb onto one of the metal ladders on the outside of the train. But the three of us just slowly crossed some tracks, despondent, and sat again in another abandoned station. At least I'm in Turkey, I thought. At least I'm inside and it's warmish. The Turkish man half smiled in sympathy and held up six fingers and pointed at the clock. The next train is in almost 3 hours, at 6 am. Oh well, what was I going to do in Edirne at 3 am anyway, I thought, with a slight deja-vous.

I climbed into a damp corner, with my feet against my huge bag, clutching my small pack, and fell asleep listening to the soothing sounds of the Cocteau Twins on my iPod. I was shaken awake by the Turkish guy, and he was pointing at the blurry ticket window. I squinted at a blue shape that I guessed was a ticket agent. I patted my pockets and found my glasses. 5 am, ugh. What new bureaucracy is this? I have my ticket already. I went to the agent. Where are you going, he asked? To Edirne. He nodded. I passed him my ticket. He passed it back and began to write on some small carbon copy papers. What's that, I asked? Your ticket. I crouched and contorted and got my head into the tiny ticket window. I saw him writing "Istanbul"! I showed you my ticket already, I gasped. That ticket is only to Edirne, he replied. I'm only going to Edirne! Why can't anyone believe me, I exclaimed, dramatically, as I turned in a circle as if to address the entire (empty) station. His jaw dropped and I think he began to curse. He waved his hand at the ruined ticket, in triplicate, as if it was my fault. You asked me where I'm going and I said Edirne! He waved one hand at the ticket and complained over his shoulder to someone else in the back of the office, while he did a sweeping gesture with his other hand to dismiss me. I rolled my eyes and dragged my feet, back to my damp corner.

The fluorescent lights felt particularly bright and offensive now. One gulp of water remained in my bottle, and although thirsty, I didn't feel like drinking since the "toilet" was far away and pretty terrifying. I was so tired and submissive by this point, I actually don't remember catching the train which must have arrived about an hour later. It was still dark. I don't know if I had a seat or had to stand. I remember stressing out, like on most of my train rides over the past week, about when to get off. I remember waiting by the door with some very well covered Muslim women who said "next stop". Then as we arrived they said "maybe not... next one." So I stepped off the train with reluctance. Another abandoned station, at about 6:30 am. This was not downtown. It was raining, and still dark. I waited 15 minutes, then decided I should try to find my couch-surfing host. He said he had to work today but I was now hoping to catch him before work. I put on my Aussie leather hat and began to walk in a random direction in the rain.

In a few minutes I found a petrol station. It was a soggy 7 or 8 degrees out, and I wasn't worried about getting wet, but I was a bit worried about my packed clothes and gadgets. Although he didn't speak English, it was easy to understand that the clerk inside was asking me immediately if I wanted some tea. That hit the spot. He seemed shocked when I tried to ask how much I should pay for the tea. Did I insult his hospitality? I tried to ask directions to my couch-surfing host's address. One clerk began to consult with a taxi driver waiting there. On my scrap of paper they saw my host's mobile number and motioned that they could call. It was just after 7:00 am. I tried to say that it may be too early, but it was too late, they were dialing. From the conversation, all I could make out was "Canada" a couple times. They motioned for me to sit. One clerk gave me a complimentary package of hand wipes. Another who spoke a few words of English said "10 minutes, he comes. More chai?"

Nurullah, my host, arrived a few minutes later. The petrol station clerks helped me load my luggage into his car and waved me off with big smiles. The taxi driver shrugged and crawled back into his cab. In Nurullah's clean, spacious apartment, we had breakfast, he showed me around, and left me on his comfy couch to catch up on some way overdue sleep as he went to work. With a renewed deep appreciation for a soft place to lie, a pillow, and a blanket, I slipped off into unconsciousness while marveling at the remarkable, pervasive Turkish hospitality.

Turkey: hard to get to, that's a fact!

"I wish I was the brakeman
On a hurtling fevered train
Crashing headlong into the heartland
Like a cannon in the rain
With the beating of the sleepers
And the burning of the coal
Counting the towns flashing by
In a night that's full of soul..."
- The Waterboys

I hesitate to document this leg of my journey since it was very uncomfortable and very frustrating. But it may be important to remember that travel is not always glamorous. Also, the tests and hardships really help us appreciate the good times.

So after checking out of the luxury suite for 5 € in Sofia at noon, I took advantage of their free reservations room to find train times to Edirne, Turkey where I had two nights with a couch-surfer planned already. I had a lot of trouble pre-planning this leg of travel since the Bulgarian info is completely impossible to understand and even google had trouble translating the page. It's about 6 hours by car, so I was already disappointed that I'd get there in the dark. Hıtch-hıke? But I dıdn't have a tent lıke my glory days of travel ın New Zealand and Australıa, and hıtchıng ın the dark ıs never a great ıdea.

A Bulgarian helped me, and discovered only one train, leaving at 7 pm and arriving at 3 am. Only one?! And what would I do in Edirne at 3 am? So I tried to get creative, and found a train leaving in about an hour to Plavdev, half way across Bulgaria; then a tight half hour later connection from there to the border town of Svelingrad. I figured that from there I could get a bus across the border, hopefully. I  rushed to search for other options but didn't come up with anything. For some reason buses didn't cross my mind, who knows why not.  Now I had about 40 minutes to catch the train to Plavdev. So I asked the reception to exchange $1 into leve so I could buy a tram ticket, and rushed out to catch the tram. Two went by before I reached the stop, then there were none. I got to the station with about 8 minutes to spare when I found out that they only take cash, and only Bulgarian cash. So I ran to a shady exchange booth and changed €20 and ran back to the ticket window where there were now 4 people in line. 4 minutes left. The ticket woman saw my panicked look and told the others to move over so I could finish my transaction (well, that's what I imagined she said.) She sold me the ticket but looked very skeptical. 2 minutes. She couldn't tell me the track #... find it on the board! Of course the board was in Cyrillic. No time to decipher it. How many options could there be? With 0 minutes remaining, I approached several options underground. Think, thınk! Ok, there's a couple running, just follow them! As they loaded their luggage into the train already whistling its warning, I yelled, panting: Plavdev?? They shook their heads. Despair and defeat. Then I heard them saying "da, da!" and motioning me to pass up my giant pack to them. Wow, the head-shake-yes almost foiled me again. The train was moving when I struggled onto it. Phew.

I crossed the Danube from the North to Sofıa, then South East to Plovdıv, then East to the border town of Svılengrad

I sat across from a clean cut, well dressed guy reading a newspaper with pictures of naked women on it, and sitting with his approximately 8 year old son. The son was much more interested in my iPod as I thumb typed my blog, than the girly pictures his dad waved around. They too were getting out in Plavdev. I got there before dark a couple hours later, but a bit behind schedule, making my next connection tight (of course!) After more language struggles,I was shocked that my ticket was only about $4 for a four hour ride to Svelingrad, just across the border from Edirne, Turkey. After more panicked scrambling and running back and forth between the ticket window and an info window where one girl spoke a little english, I deciphered the Cyrillic, amazed that I could starting learning a new alphabet using only train schedules.

All the scrambling was pointless this time since the train was late. This train was new and fancy. It reminded me of a Toronto Go train. Fighting extreme exhaustion, I tried to give my attention to a young Bulgarian university student, fluent in Italian apparently, who struggled painfully to tell me about the history of the towns we passed. It dawned on me that yawning in 30 second intervals may appear rude, so my face flushed and eyes watered as I strained to hold them back. Just before he exited, he said, with much difficulty, that I would have to switch to a bus then a train again. Then he was gone. What?! How? When? I finally found a Turkish girl who spoke English well, and she explained that there's a rail problem and so we'd need a stretch on a bus to go around it. She wasn't concerned. Just follow everyone else she said.

Eventually the train stopped, but "everyone else" got off into the darkness of some remote Bulgarian stop and dispersed in all directions, some of them climbing over tracks and between box cars! I followed the Turkish girl and there indeed was a coach waiting for us. We packed it full, and commenced a frightening drive, careening around steep one lane roads through the black countryside. I wanted to sleep out of self defense, but my neighbour aggressively kept trying to communicate with me, with his 10 English and maybe 30 German word vocabulary. Then he called his daughter so I could talk to her in English, about nothing, really. After a couple smoking stops and a couple hours, we all got off and again we had the challenge of finding the train. It was getting pretty late and I now realized that I was already a couple hours behind schedule. This was starting to feel like one of those nightmares when you just can't seem to get to where you want to go and waking up would be such a relief. But this was real, and sleeping would be such a relief now.

I sat with the Turkish girl on the train and told her my "plan", that I would seek a bus in Svelingrad, or perhaps a hotel, since it now looked like we'd get there near midnight. So much for my creative plan to arrive in Edirne way before 3 am. She said she would offer me a place but that her Muslim mom might freak out.

The Svelingrad station, where no one appeared to work, was quite remote. I found a restaurant/pub nearby. When I crashed in clumsily dragging my pack with a big Canadian flag on it, the whole place seemed to stop, with everyone staring. I couldn't distinguish a waiter or waitress. Everyone was sitting, nibbling, drinking and smoking. I stood in the middle for an awkward while, until a group finally asked me to join them: a group of 4 police officers. Two spoke some English. They helped me find some dishes without meat in them, and I found out that the actual town is about 10 kms away. So much for finding a hotel.  One happy shockıng surprıse, a delıcıous green salad! Yum.

The train was supposed to come around 1:30 am, and I realized this was now the direct train from Sofia that I disregarded so many hours ago because I thought it would get in too late! It would have been so much less of a nightmare. I could be on that traın rıght now sleepıng, cozy... Back at the abandoned station there was now an older Turkish couple waiting for the same train. I finally fell asleep across a few grungy chairs, untıl a border guard woke me with some urgency. I collected my stuff and darted out towards the tracks in a panic. Three guards where waiting there, smoking and now laughing, then they disappeared. A lame practical joke I guess.

The station, including the ticket window, was still abandoned except for me and the Turkish couple. How was I supposed to get a ticket? I finally fell asleep again. Some time later I was shaken awake by a border guard. At first I was completely disoriented. I dıdn't know where I was, what room, what country?! But then I heard a train whistle. I remembered that I needed to catch a traın somewhere. I dragged myself and my stuff outside into the chilly night and stood with the Turks and the guard as the train pulled up, and conscıousness slowly flowed back ınto my braın. Suddenly it dawned on me that I don't have a ticket! I mentioned this to a guard. He said I couldn't get on without one! I said I'd been trying to buy one all night. He said keep trying: go back in, and hurry, and bang on the ticket window as loud as you can!

- to be continued -


(comıng up: dıscrımınatıon agaınst Canadıans?)

Hitch-hiking in Romania

I easily let Beniamin, my couch-surfer host, talk me into hitch-hiking in Romania. It's very normal here, and customary to pay the driver for petrol. But now it's seeming less and less like a good idea. With my basic command of the Hungarian language, I've forgotten how easy it is to misunderstand each other when you don't even have a basic command of the language of the land, and to thus get completely confused and lost.

We exited his flat and he said I'll catch a bus to the city centre and hitch at the crossroads there. He assured me that in 2 years riding this bus, he had never been checked for his ticket. I insisted I wanted one anyway. At a vendor, she had no change so we just left. We walked for a while and when we approached a big street, a bus pulled up and he said "jump on, it's your bus! Get off after five stops!" As the doors closed, I realized I had no ticket. This really stressed me out, partially because I thought I'd get caught, but especially because it was just morally wrong. At each minute I got more concerned about cheating the system. Then my phone rang. "Get off that bus, it's the wrong one! I saw it turn the wrong way. Sorry!!! Catch a tram to December 1st St." So I jumped off the bus, relieved that I was no longer free-loading. Then I saw that trams go at least four different directions from there. Ugh. In Hungarian, English, German, and mostly mime, some women explained that I need the negro tram. Another moment of confusion before I recognized that English's Latin roots can be handy! After 20 minutes and a yellow tram and red tram passed by, the black tram finally arrived. I had asked a teenager if I could buy a ticket on the tram. Yes. Great. I got on. No said the driver. Get it over there he pointed. Then it left.

(It reminded me of my train ride to Oradea. I couldn't always see the station names and the train was behind schedule. So as it approached a large station I gathered my things, and asked a young woman if this was Oradea. "Oradea, yes," pointing straight down. So I scrambled to get off the train. But I couldn't open the door! I panicked as the train pulled away. But then I saw what must have been the station name, a very long name starting with a P. Good thing I couldn't figure out the door!)

So back at the tram stop, I got my ticket, and waited as trams of various colours, except black, came and went. Finally I got my tram, found the road to Cluj, came around the corner prepared for a hitch-hiking adventure. My heart sank. There were already about a dozen people there waiting for rides. Ugh. So I went 50 m down the street, propped up my bag (by far the largest one in the group, unfortunately) with a big Canadian flag on it, and put out my thumb. I also had a sign that Beniamin made for me: CJ for Cluj. So I thought the flag and the sign would better my chances over the others. Then I noticed that two beautiful single women were in the mix. But they didn't get rides first. Is there a system here?? Then a nice looking couple arrived with a sign "CJ" and set up beside me. Ugh. I watched the dozen others get rides, 1 by 1 or 2 by 2. Others replaced them. I started to squirm. Hide the flag? Remove the outback hat? What if it starts to get dark?

I think it was about 45 minutes before a little truck pulled over beside me. What a relief. The driver was a really nice guy named Rodu?, and he spoke a few English and a few Hungarian words. He called his friends occasionally to ask how to say so-and-so in Hungarian so we could chat a little.

After a few serious hills and valleys, countryside and villages, traffic slowed and we entered Cluj. He took me directly to the city centre square where I met my next couch-surfing host. And this sweet guy wouldn't except any payment from me, despite the custom.

train to Romania

My train is crawling through dense forests, branches adorned with fresh fluffy snow. Slightly rolling hills offer a welcome change from the sometimes bleak, great Hungarian plains. I guess I'm in Transylvania, Romania.

Had a scare at the border. A police officer boarded the train, took my passport, said "give me patience" and left. A few minutes later the train crept forward a few inches. I ran up and down the corridors and it seemed abandoned! I whipped open a window, gazed out and saw the guy giving the ok signal to go. Where's my passport?!

It reminded me of crossing the Moroccan border from Spain when a guy started to collect everyone's passports in a big crowd. I saw locals sticking bills in theirs. Before I could determine what to do, he snatched mine and then disappeared for too long into a shabby building without saying anything. I did get it back that time and somehow crossed the border despite interrogations during which I was offered cocaine, accused of selling it, and back and forth like that for a while.

I found the ticket lady who said in Hungarian "relax!" as she rushed off the train. The police eventually returned after I squirmed for a while and said simply "we got you stamp."

Ack! Again! On the other side I guess. This one doesn't speak English OR Hungarian. I feel so helpless now! Great, he too disappeared off the train. Well, the view is bleak hear: just a run-down wooded station with broken windows, concrete steps turning to rubble. It's giving me time to type this all up on my iPod at least. Phew, what a relief; he just returned, winded and smiley, handing me my passport enthusiastically. But the train is still immobile. Welcome to Romania?

Ok, finally started moving, but back the way we came. That's confusing. Switched tracks, I suppose? This train is so creaky and clunky. Just tried two toilets, no water of course. Oops, here's the ticket guy. This used to be Hungarian territory, why doesn't he speak Hungarian? I felt so clever in Hungary, but now I feel dumb, and a little scared. Not knowing the language is disempowering! So I downloaded a "basic Romanian" app; I better start studying right now! La revedere!

Halloween

Okay, this post is obviously way overdue.  I don't think I have much to say, but there are some pictures to share.  In Hungary they don't do Halloween.  I did see some of the younger generation dressed up for parties, but only a few. Instead, they have the much more serious Day of the Dead, which I've documented extensively already.  But the American Corner here wanted to bring some essence of Halloween to Debrecen.  I'll let you decide if they captured it successfully, judging as best as you can from my photos and some I borrowed from the American Corner facebook page.

the beautiful hall

the judges

one team of my friends: Bori, Kitti (best original costume: Anne Hall), Meghan, and Anna

unconventional tools, very gruesome!

the doctors (they won best team costume!)

more friends: Veronika and Ancsa

the final contestants

one of the top prize winners

yay, Ancsa and Veronika won a prize! (No favoritism, let's hope...)

the whole group!

For more images feel free to visit the American Corner facebook Halloween album at:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=320554&id=38289193271

There isn't much for me to say about this event.  It was well done, and a lot of fun.  The responsibility as a judge was actually a bit heavy for me, but I survived.  There were lots of categories and plenty of prizes, so I didn't get any death threats for accusations of favoritism, although some of friends must have been wondering...

Day of the Dead (part III): visiting my grandpa's grave

It is understandable if people begin to worry about me, dwelling at such length on this theme.  I can assure everyone that I'm in a very healthy mental state, and enjoying life to the fullest.  The dead, no doubt, can help us with that. There is just so much beauty and wonder to be found in these cemeteries; I'm excited to soon share some awe inspiring experiences with crows in a future post: wildlife part II! 

But for now I'm streaming a somafm station called "Doomed: dark music for tortured souls", just to get me into the mood!  I thought of saving such music for writing about my halloween post, but it wasn't spooky either, and my soul just remains inspired, rather than tortured. (Okay, they were just playing a John Carpenter track with a lot of horror film screaming, so I switched to "Lush", a mellow and sensuous station.)

So on the actual evening of Day of the Dead, I traveled to Vecses, where my grandmother is visiting from Canada and where my grandfather decided he should be buried, at great expense, although he passed away in Canada.  It doesn't make it easy for my grandmother to visit him, that's for sure.

Vecses' cemetery, just outside of Budapest

We arrived at twilight, my favourite time of day (and perhaps least favourite movie series.)  You can get a sense of the beautiful vista I beheld at that time, shown above.  Without a tripod or professional camera, these ultra-low light photos were quite challenging.

Entering the cemetery was quite the experience too.  One thing that I didn't capture in my photos is the enormous crowd that was there: hundreds of families dressed up but mostly in black, carrying candles and flowers and wreaths.  We approached in a car, me in the back, my grandmother in the front, and Marika, my cousin and my grandmother's niece, driving.  There was no parking anywhere.  We went, with much difficulty through the monstrous crowds, to the front gate where a police officer was shaking his head and waving his arms in a clear "no way!" signal.  Marika put down her window and pleaded with him, stating honestly that my grandmother can't walk much at all.  My astonishment just grew as we entered the cemetery in the little car, the crowd gradually parting around us.  It became clear to me that this was the only car inside the cemetery gates.  Crawling at a slow walking pace, our headlights lit up myriad faces, all wide eyes and frowns, as they scurried between gravestones to let us through.  Although I wouldn't know anyone there, I nevertheless felt the need to crouch down in the back seat and hide. 

Peeking out the window, the spectacle of ornamentation drew me into the mystery of this time of year once again.

We pulled over behind a big trash bin filled with flower stems, near my grandpa's resting place.  If you look carefully at the photo below, you can see Marika placing a candle on the grave, on its left side, and my grandmother is a dark figure on the far left.

my Grandfather's grave, Ujfalussy Laszlo

I had no idea what would happen here. Marika tidied up the grave, re-lit some candles, and replaced some that had wept all their wax away already.  I helped, and tried my best to capture the moment on film.  Then we stood.  And stared.  Stood and occasionally shook off a mild chill. No words.  When you don't know what to do, or what's happening, it can be quite awkward, which it was for me. After a while, stretched long by awkwardness, I timidly asked in Hungarian if I could say a prayer.  Unfortunately, I don't know any prayers in Hungarian by heart.  So I said the only Holy writing in Hungarian I have memorized, the first of Baha'u'llah's Hidden Words: 


"Ó szellem fia! Első tanácsom ez: legyen szíved tiszta, jóságos és sugárzó, hogy ősi uralmad soha el ne múljon és mindörökké tartson."


("O son of Spirit! My first counsel is this: possess a pure, kindly, and radiant heart, that thine may be a sovereignty ancient, imperishable, and everlasting.")


Immediately after I finished, they both said "az szép" (that's beautiful), so I felt pretty good about the strange choice, my only choice really.


Then we stood and stared some more.

Not until well afterward did I begin to consider what my grandmother may have been doing; and perhaps I should have given her more time alone there than the few moments when I stole away to sneak some photos.  When we came to this grave a couple weeks ago, during the day, it was the same type of standing and staring.  A quiet way of mourning, I later considered?  But I couldn't help but think it was more of a paralysis caused by an inability to express oneself, or due to a lack of healthy traditions around mourning.  I've seen Italian women wail and beat the ground.  It may seem incredibly awkward or inappropriate in our culture, but it must feel good to really let out your emotions that way.


I've since been speaking with friends here about visiting cemeteries.  Ancsa (sounds like on-chah) is a Hungarian elementary school teacher who shared with me that it brings her peace in her heart to visit her grandmother's grave.  Ancsa talks to her, and feels like her grandmother is with her there.  I found that very touching and realized that my grandmother may have been doing that, but obviously not out loud with us standing right there.

my Grandmother's sister: Maria, who we called Keresztmama

And then there is my Czech friend Veronika who told me that for her a cemetery is a place of peace and stillness, where it is completely normal to hang around and cry.  You certainly won't be judged or draw attention to yourself if you cry in a cemetery.  So she would go there in times of difficulty and do just that: cry freely.  

the compulsory self-portrait

I love feelings of melancholy, wonder, and awe; so I often seek out these feelings.  Cemeteries seem to help me that way.  I never considered talking to those there that are eternally physically still and quiet, yet spiritually dancing and singing.

some more relatives

The next time I'm in Vecses, I'll try to initiate a conversation with my grandfather and see what happens.  Of course, I don't believe we need physical proximity to their remains to do this, but it might inspire us, and besides, it seems like it might be tradition.

cremation towers?

The Day of the Dead was a while ago, and I apologize for the lapse in posts.  I caught a cold.  But I'm feeling better.  Yesterday I got out into the unseasonally beautiful 19 degrees for mid November.  Where did I go?  Well I planned to go to the great forest, which boarders the cemetery.  Once again, the cemetery drew me in.  I realized I'd never been to Debrecen's cemetery during daylight!

this guys seems to have caught a pike with his bare hands; not sure why he's at the cemetery...

more cremation towers? (in Debrecen)

Last weekend the Debrecen Baha'i community had the great honour of a visit from the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of Hungary.  They met with the Local Spiritual Assembly and with some of the friends here, and to my great pleasure, they met with me as well.  Also, I had the great bounty of going with them to the Debrecen cemetery to visit Mrs. Afnan's grave.  It's her previous residence where I'm staying.

Hungary's NSA and friends getting ready to pray at Mrs. Afnan's grave

Standing by her grave and praying with members of the National Spiritual Assembly was very, very powerful for me.

the vendors out front

road to the Debrecen cemetery

Hungarian inventions video

This should lighten the mood a little before I post: Day of the Dead (part III).

It's a video highlighting some innovations from Hungary.
(Thanks to Gúthyné Maca for drawing my attention to it!)

Day of the Dead (part I)

If you're trying to follow the "when" of my adventures, don't bother.  It's very confusing and I apologize for all the anachronisms.  I'm back from my trip to Veszprem and Vecses, but haven't yet had a chance to blog about older, more interesting topics, like the special holiday here on November 1st: the day of the dead.  I'm especially excited because I've been filled with profound thoughts and I really love some of the photos I took in various cemeteries.

When I heard about the day of the dead, I was eager to travel to Vecses where I could join my family to mourn our dead on Nov. 1st. A brief disclaimer: I don't personally believe in mourning the dead, feeling that it is somewhat selfish.  We mourn our loss and usually ignore their gain.  As Baha'u'llah says: "I have made death a messenger of joy to thee.  Wherefore dost thou grieve?"  Much of the time, I think death forces us to consider our own mortality, and I guess that can be worrisome.

In the last 8 days, I've been to many cemeteries, in daylight and moonlight, and pitch-blackness.  I honestly did not have the slightest notion of fear.  Every time I was filled with awe, sometimes melancholy, and often joy.  Seems crazy?  Or can we consider it a healthy attitude rooted in confidence and wisdom, thanks to my Faith?  This reminds me of Green Day: "Am I retarded or am I just over-joyed?"  Or what about the episode of Northern Exposure where young Ed finds out how old his friend Roseanne is, freaks out for a while thinking she could die at any moment, and eventually deals with it by buying her a plot of remote land for her grave.  They hike there and the episode ends with the two of them dancing on her grave.  No dancing going on in western graveyards, as far as I know, but I really felt like it lately.
(Oh ya, I took part in the Thrill the World, record breaking simultaneous dance to Thriller last year at Halloween; that almost counts!)

Which reminds me of a really wonderful devotional gathering that I went to a couple of weeks ago.  It was devoted to people that we lost.  We took turns talking about the things we remember about them or the things that made them special.  I spoke about my grandfather and my best friend Terry who passed a few years ago, in his 30's, from melanoma.  Then we said some prayers for the progress of their souls.  I said one of my favourite prayers for Terry, which has the following line in it: "... cause him to enter Thy glorious paradise, and perpetuate his existence in Thine exalted rose garden, that he may plunge into the sea of light in the world of mysteries."

So after saying a few prayers, in English, Persian, and Swedish (but not Hungarian!) we lit a few candles and moped a bit.  Then I thought of Terry and realized he wouldn't want it that way, so we cranked some music and danced.  I had such a great time; it just felt so good!

The "day of the dead" experience started on Sunday night, Oct. 31st: the night of the eve of the day of the dead? Awkward.  I was still in Debrecen, so a small group of us got together and went to the main cemetery.  After a tram ride, it was still a pretty long walk in pitch dark, with an awe inspiring spread of stars.  Like a true geeky science guy, I pointed out a constellation (Cassiopeia) and star cluster (the seven sisters.)  We arrived and viewed what should have been an eerie vista, but I was just overwhelmed with the beauty of it all, and somewhat obsessed with capturing it on my crappy camera.  Of course, these shots don't do the experience justice...

a statue by the gate

that's me; self-timed with my camera on the ground

Weaving around between graves, on an awkward stumbling trek, Mansoureh showed me to Mrs. Afnan's grave.  She passed away a few years ago, leaving her beautiful big residence to the Baha'i community of Debrecen.  That's where I'm now staying!  So we paused at her grave and prayed for her soul too.  We were surrounded by thousands of candles wearily trying to fight back a chilly dark night, and we realized that both of our prayers mentioned light: her's I think mentioned "light upon light" and mine "plunge into the sea of light, in the world of mysteries."

There were five of us there in that cemetery; that is, five of us above ground with our souls still attached. All the mourning families who placed these candles were gone.  The five of us didn't seem to talk much that night.  If it was a reverence for the dead, or a numbing sense of awe, or just a wave of contemplation, I'm not sure. I grabbed the following quote from a facebook comment (thanks Meghan! Anything on facebook is public domain, right?) "It was SO very beautiful. :) And very powerful. A strong reminder of how finite and short life is. I could see my breath and was reminded of how quickly that breath leaves us, life. And how in 100 years they'll be new people probably standing in that very spot, thinking the same sort of thoughts and lighting a candle for the dead, for me maybe."

One final quote from Baha'u'llah:

"...up from Thy prison ascend unto the glorious meads above, and from thy mortal cage, wing thy flight unto the paradise of the placeless."

the sweets!

One of the most wonderful and charming things about Hungary are their sweets, or in Hungarian: sütemény.  Perhaps you can imagine the problem with having such great sweets.  They are readily available, they are inexpensive, and they are very very tasty.  So what I'm saying is that it's difficult to hold back.  Luckily, I've become pretty serious about running here, so that offsets any weight gain issues, I hope.

Just below my apartment at the Baha'i Centre, there is a bakery with some pastries, and they have one thing called an olasz túrós pita, which to my best translation is an italian cheese pie.  But it's square.  And moist and so satisfying, and only costs about a dollar.  I've been having a few too many of those...

Check out this display case in one of the many local cukrászdák (confectionary shops)

 

 The sweets you see here range in price from about 100 forint to 300 forint, or about 50 cents to $1.50.  I had the third one from the right side, on the bottom row on the day I took this picture. I had asked for the most Hungarian thing.  It was called a nostalgia creamy.  Delicious!  And this is a rare shop in which smoking is prohibited.  Also, this is my favourite shop because she makes the best cappuccino at the lowest price I've found, just over a dollar.  She puts a generous dollop of real cream in it too.

All my raving about this place, which is right around the corner from the American Corner where I am right now, has seduced me into another visit.  Less than a 2 minute walk.  I better take the long, scenic route home to burn off some of those delicious calories.  Jó étvágyat! (Bon appetite!)

Rock Suli (pronounced Rock Shoo-lee)

I love the Rock Suli!  But it may be difficult to explain this place; you kinda need to experience it yourself.  It seems to function through a network of alternative, hip volunteers.  A few days after arriving in Debrecen, I was at the American Corner, and was invited to come to a mysterious place for a mysterious reason.  Maybe "ambiguous reason" is more fitting.  In any case, I followed a group of people I just met, past the place I'm staying, and down a dark alley.  Then through a really dark field, and approached an almost entirely invisible warehouse, shrouded in the black of a new moon evening.  I joked about how they brought me there to rob me.  One of them was Tomas, a last-year med student, who said: "based on your age and appearance, you have good genes, so we brought you here to harvest your organs.  Hahaha."

We entered a warehouse obviously decorated through years of youthful artistic expression, in layers, by the hip alternative crowd who hangs out there. The walls were strewn with posters of past events (see above, and below) and new events at the Rock Suli and around town.  Overlapping drum kit rhythms reverberated through the walls as aspiring rock star drummers practiced under expert instruction. I found a small turkish darabuka and played a little, subconsciously probably trying to demonstrate my worthiness to be in such a cool place.  No one seemed very impressed; I am a bit out of practice!  I'm hoping to find a drum in Budapest but I don't live in detached quarters anymore so my neighbours may not approve.  Maybe I can play at the Rock Suli!

A witty lad there named Gergely gave a tour of the place in fluent English.  I quickly learned that this cultural house did much more than rock education and concerts.  They have a wool work room where they create felt!  They model the old Hungarian traditional art.

A beautiful solid felt ball!

Cozy hand made wool hats; not woven, but worked, um, whatever they do to make felt...

Ancient Hungarian pottery work, perhaps?  A kiln in the back. And, haha, speaker boxes for the table!

a collapsible yurt frame, demonstrated by Gergely

The yurt work was the most impressive.  Using the tools the ancient Hungarians would have had, they cut these trees, steamed and bent them, attached them somehow with pig leather, and it expands and collapses, accordion style!  So this was the perfect accommodation frame for the nomadic Hungarian tribes.  If I recall correctly, they then stretch a felt cover over the frame.  Awesome!

Attila, Tomas, me, Dori, and Kent on the Rock Suli tour

Rock Suli: Rock, school, and a whole lot more!

a few random things around Debrecen

A zillion elementary school kids got on the bus with us.  Field trip to the zoo! (I haven't been yet.)

I haven't really figured out the cuisine in Debrecen yet.  I'm proud to say that I've been in Hungary for over two weeks now, and I only had a small piece of chicken at my great-aunt's house.  You see, at Christmas every year I go to my grandmother's house near Welland, and she always cooks tonnes of meat.  I appease the family by having one piece of breaded, deep-fried chicken breast.  So my grandmother told my great-aunt Marika in Vecses that I eat chicken, but only the breast.  (It got lost in the translation some when Marika kept grabbing her bossom and saying, in Hungarian, chicken boobies are okay, right?)  So when I arrived at her house she had already cooked some chicken boobies, so I had to eat some.  Anyway, no meat since then.  But check out this wierd pizza!  I dissected it and took a picture:

Ya, those are pickles on the pizza; and peas and carrots and corn from a can.  It actually wasn't too bad.  Since then I've found out that the bakery right below my place makes tasty pizzas, but unfortunately always with meat.  I've made a running order with them, so I pick up a pineapple pizza every Friday at noon.  Yum!

This clothing store is the main competitor of "Bottom of Fashion."

A cute building.  The architecture is really interesting here.  I don't think I can wait for a blog entry dedicated only to that, so I'm going to include my favourite shots as they come in.

This is one of the medical school buildings on campus.

I love the balconies in Hungary!