Last day in Barcs

                I’m in my last day here. I’m awkwardly sitting around in the teacher’s lounge because this way I don’t have to say goodbye. I’m just running out the clock. I have vacating the dorm room, but not without breaking the toilet brush, which I replaced after a failed conversation with a woman I’d not met before at the collegium during which I waved around a new brush like a weapon. However, I did say goodbye to the principal, who has always been very shy with me, and I with her; I gave her some chocolate and said something like this:

                Speaking thanking with you. Very, very fishy I am. [Be careful with “grateful,” “fish” and also “death,” hálás, hal, halál—they’re different words.] Loving the school. I am thanking you! Pictures?
                At seven last night a couple students brought me into a dorm room in which lay unpacked some audio equipment for an interview intended for student radio, DVK Sulirádió. After one of the two boys expressed his irritation that I was half an hour late, they fiddled with the equipment and did the interview twice. What do I love about Hungary? What do I love about the school, and the students? What is my favorite thing to eat here? Where is my favorite place in Barcs? How are Hungarians different from Americans? And what is a typical day like in my life in America? How is school different? Big questions; but the interview took maybe five minutes. After every answer I gave, the student, said, Cool, cool, or Great. But the questions gave me a lot to think about.  What I said at the time was that I liked being by the river or in the trees, and that in Seattle I get up at 5 am and go running and then go to work for ten hours and come home to busy children who need to go places and then we sleep; I said I liked pörkölt galuskával, and that Hungarians were very serious until you know them and then they are very welcoming; I said students were smart and enthusiastic. Is it all true? Close enough. It doesn’t matter. But how are they different? How is living in the country different than living in the city.
                Bicycling to the store today I noticed how slowly I was peddling. When did that happen? People here pay attention when I go faster, silently tracking me with unwondering eyes, but no one pays any heed when I go at a pace that would drive traffic crazy in Seattle. At Roosevelt, I charge through the halls  and count every minute, finding ways to multitask through the halls; I rush around more than most, I know; and I suspect that such behavior here would come across as even more brusk and cold than in Seattle (although I have made my peace with seeming this way at Roosevelt—too much to get done in too little time). But being in a town one can cross in a 20 minute walk with people many of whom are known all their lives does allow a different pace. Maybe it demands this too: familiarity, greeting, warmth.
                All this has translated into time for me to be with others and to be with myself, and it also translates into enormous hospitality for guests for me. The bulk of my grant went to the plane ticket and my substitute teacher, but a quarter was designated for food and lodging—and this quarter remains largely untouched. I’ve bought some apples and pastries. But the school has housed me and so have friends; and I can bring people wine and chocolate, but all my meals have been provided, either by the school or with lavish generosity by dear, dear friends.