Connecting

I talked with the handyman of Zoltán utca 10 this morning about our internet problem. We have nicknamed him "Fuzz" because of his incredible hair-doo. Often we have seen him chiseling at something, or drilling something else. He has a small apartment two floors above us. His name is Gabór, I learned, but in our hearts, he is Fuzz.

I showed him the cut wire Jack discovered yesterday, and he immediately went for his tools, and we had a connection again in about half an hour. During that time, I made a different connection. One of the workers doing the renovation noticed my trombone, and asked me what instrument I played. We got to talking (in Hungarian) about music, and he told me his colleague, the whistler, used to play the baritone. Huh!

After Fuzz fixed the line, I locked up and started for the Academy. On my way out, I handed my Rochut book to Whistler and asked if he could play it. I think it made his day, because laughed and talked enthusiastically about how out of shape he was. The other workers came over to see what was up, and we spent the next half hour talking. I did my best to understand what they said.

I gleamed that Whistler is Romanian. His family lives there. He has a bunch of kids and hasn't played baritone for twenty years. He kept saying something and touching his lips, so I'm guessing that he stopped because he hurt them somehow. He's got a bunch of silver teeth, but I don't think that's the reason. I kept offering the book to him and encouraging him to try it out. His reluctance stems from it being in the wrong clef, for one (most baritone players in Europe use treble clef, I think). He is obviously very musical, though. I wonder if, when he played, it was by ear? Have I mentioned his terrific intonation when whistling? I may record this, because it's that good.

The other workers gathered around while we were talking, and started adding their own comments to the conversation. While they talked, I felt I was touching a completely different part of the world than I've been living in. Being a student from America is both enlightening and isolating. "Student status" is a wonderful thing, with the government giving you money and discounts on everything, but at the cost of keeping you with your own group. There is variety in that group, of course, but most everyone is of the same age and class. This morning, under the dirt on their faces and the calluses on their hands, I found surprising warmth. Janós, the man who struck up the conversation with me, said something about a concert coming up he wanted me to come to, so I gave him my number. He is the one of the group who speaks a little English. I don't know who or when or where, but when I get a call I will make sure to come.

Connecting with people in a land where you share no common language is a problem I have been wondering about. I sent an e-mail about this to my parents and my Grandpa Myles, all of whom have traveled extensively. "How do you get a feeling for a place when there is a language barrier between you and the people?" Mom shared with me some stories about traveling in Nepal with Dad, where they found this connection through Gin Rummy and food. She suggested, too, photos, frisbee and music. I learned the latter to be especially true this morning. Gramps reminded me that eye contact is a big positive, and this is not lost on Hungarians. A toast in the evening is not complete without a steady gaze while glasses clink - "egészségedre".

I now carry around all the photos I brought from home. My frisbee team, family, Enfield pictures and some friends accompany me in my walks around this city. I thank them all for helping me to bridge the gap I want to leap.



I know I promised a post on travel thoughts and such, and it's coming. I have some free time tomorrow, I think.