Amrit Chima
There’s been so much movement and sway this past year (as always). I didn’t even see it coming: Daniel and my one-year wedding anniversary. Just like that it was upon us, a shocking reminder of how rapidly we’re propelled forward through time. Wasn’t I just moving from New York to prepare for the wedding? Wasn’t I just enduring an onslaught of photographers surrounding me in the reception hall while I danced to Punjabi bhangra music holding a Hungarian paprika keychain in my hand? Wasn’t I just in Guatemala learning to speak Spanish? Wasn’t I just meeting my newborn nephew, piecing together this website, moving to Hungary, writing a novel? I’m trying so hard to appreciate all of it. Nothing but blessings, but all so hard to grasp at this pace.
Daniel and I, increasingly and independently busy, decided to halt for two days, skidding with a loud squeal against the momentum. Our anniversary was a good excuse to take stock. We traveled to the lower end of the Alps in Austria, far from the chaos of renovating his wine shop, and far from the anticlimactic aftermath of finishing my novel (what will I do with myself if I’m not still writing that thing?).
I remember my wedding as a chaotic whirl of camera flashes, cheeks aching from smiling into the paparazzi, quick embraces, warm congratulatory wishes, tugs on my arm for a quick second of my time, hunger pains because people continuously stole me away from my food. Out of the thousands of pictures from that day, I think there were honestly only three shots of me and Daniel alone together. And here we were, a year later, roaming the quiet small-town streets of Puchberg am Schneeberg at the foot of Schneeberg Mountain, the two of us breathing in the cold air, celebrating—alone. It was exactly as it should be. The first day we rode a train up The Schneeberg to the summit, getting dizzy from the altitude and the sturm we drank at the single pub up top (sturm is not quite wine, but more like alcoholic grape juice). We then spent the night in an Austrian guesthouse, warm like the feeling of the holidays, the owner playing lively folk songs on his accordion.
October
Monday, October 31, 2011
Puchberg am Schneeberg, Austria
Countryside road to Puchberg, a small town of 2650 inhabitants at the foot of Schneeberg Mountain
Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia
Just as soon as we arrived back home, we were invited to a wedding. Go figure. One of Daniel’s closest friends planned a shotgun ceremony, held in Tihany, about two and a half hours from Budapest near Lake Balaton, Central Europe’s largest lake. In contrast to our grand 400-guest extravaganza, theirs was a simple court ceremony with only forty attendees followed by dinner. Sweet and simple. They looked happy and had time to enjoy it.
Our friends, clinging affectionately to one another, were clearly moved by the day’s celebration of love. Really they were just posing for a pic, but I still think they were a bit emotional about it.
Matyi, another of Daniel’s closest friends, took us to his parents’ house after the wedding. In the door barely two minutes and we were already sipping a shot of homemade pálinka, the Hungarian spirit. Clinking glasses and sharing a drink seems to be the first point of etiquette in this country. Although pálinka can sometimes be a bit hard to down (come on, it burns), this is one of my favorite particulars about Hungary. Visiting other people is like being received by family or old friends. So, when lunch was served, I did not politely restrain, which I think is the point. I ate my salad, chicken, and mushrooms like a pig, finishing off with ridiculously tasty apple pie, cut into squares. These people plied me with food and kindness, weakening my resolve.
I have begun both my dance lessons with Zoli and Hungarian lessons with Attila. Both are going well. I usually leave dance class with a subtle euphoria. I beam at everything; I’m finally devoting my time and energy to something that has no purpose other than to make me happy. Hungarian is a bit more challenging. After only a few lessons I am already realizing that learning this language is not merely memorizing grammatical rules and vocabulary. It requires a shift in thinking, an adjustment in my mind to accommodate an entirely new logic. All I can say is, little by little. Who knows? After reflecting on the events of this past year, I wouldn’t be surprised if by next year I was part of a professional dance company and fluently jabbering away with Hungarians.
Matyi’s parents’ house for a huge lunch
Where I dance with Zoli
Mika Tivadar: Another bar/cafe in the fifth district
From the top of The Schneeberg: At almost 7,000 feet it is the highest mountain of Lower Austria and the easternmost mountain of the Alps.
On the drive back home, Daniel had the inspired idea to take a slight detour into Slovakia to visit Bratislava, the capital. First impressions were rather depressing, the mark of Russian communism stamped into the landscape in the shape of dreary, 70s-style tenement complexes. But the old city was full of beautifully preserved historical architecture. The only downside was the touristy, second-rate restaurant attractions lining the main thoroughfares. I was particularly dubious about the sushi eateries. The middle of the European continent is not exactly the place to get fresh catch.
The chickens. They provide fresh eggs and are slaughtered in the backyard when it’s time for a feast. A little disturbing for us non-country folk, but it’s healthy meat.
Homemade apricot pálinka with homemade tomato juice: Beyond the table, homegrown walnuts are lying out to dry.
Kőleves (translated as Stone Soup): One of the bars/cafes/restaurants in Budapest’s fifth district where I have Hungarian lessons with Attila
