There seems to be a common awareness of the stress involved in moving one’s home; however, as an international teacher it is easy to forget or think you might be immune to it. In my case I held a belief that the transition should be easier or shorter because I had one round of experience “under my belt” and I was moving from Sub-Saharan Africa to Central Europe. But according to research, this isn’t the case. A friend of mine, teaching in Sudan, sent me an article last week entitled “Orchids in the Bathroom” by William Powel, to remind me of this psychological phenomena that we often refer to as “culture shock”. The article enlightened me with two ideas. 1. That moving to a new country always has its challenges and it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve moved or how resilient you think and hope you are, there is always a transition time including some grieving for the place you just left. and 2. The best remedy for dealing with culture shock is to recognize the symptoms and be patient with yourself-- It can take a year to 18 months to fully adjust.
And as I wish for this adjustment period to quicken (For instance figure out how to change and buy the very different light bulbs that are daily going out in our house, or how I can get my American exercise video to work in the European machine or purchase one somehow somewhere that will work, or how to set up my “Forint” bank account), most of my time and creative energy is focused on directing a high school musical production, designing lessons for my students, and supporting my 16-year-old daughter. So last week when the bank manager looked up at me with a warm smile after spending two hours just completing the paperwork necessary for me to set up a bank account and said, “ I think you are going to do really well here. It will just take you about a year.”-- I got it. Acclimating in Hungary takes time. “Be happy with the baby steps” I said to myself. I hope I am on the one year adjustment plan ‘cause I feel like a wild duck paddling on some loose winter ice.
I live beside the school just down the hill from the larger village in Nagykovacsi. I am sandwiched like sweet jam between the charming small old-fashioned Hungarian village about 1 km. up from me, and 45 minutes bus- to- tram ride to the city of Budapest. It is a Friday night and I am headed with $250 cash in hand to purchase colorful silk-like fabrics for “The Stories of Scheherazade''. My secretary, Gabi, has helped me find a place, which is located downtown in the Pest side. It takes 1 hour and 15 minutes to get there because I am delayed with last minute production conversations, and as a consequence we got stuck in after-work traffic. My driver is Anti and he speaks very little English. He has a kind smile and an easy manner, which immediately I am grateful for. Living in the space of language division is new for me and I still feel awkward with it. I want to ask but can’t:” How is your family? What is your job? How long have you worked here? Where do you live?” And all I can say in Hungarian is “yes” “it is a beautiful day”…. and thank you very much” as he waits patiently in the car at the fabric shop. By the time I came out of the shop it was dusk. We drove along the Danube and across the 1839 built Green “Chain Bridge'', (the bridge that isn’t a suspension bridge but has two huge lions at the entrance) on our way back to school. I enjoy the crisp clean fall air filling the small car as we spin the roundabout. I take in the energy of the variety of multi-cultural tourists and locals filling the streets with evening plans for dining or touring or entertainment. Everyone is bathed in the light of the full moon and the reflection of the lights off of the river. I think to myself, “Some people might complain that they are working so late on a Friday night but how can I even consider this work? I am surrounded with so much beauty and adventure and my daughter is enjoying her time with a friend. What else could I ask for? I think to myself, “I do wish I had more time to spend in the city with someone who knew it and could share it with me.” But again I breathe in patience knowing that it will happen in time.
The following Saturday morning I gathered my cloth bags for shopping. I discovered a couple of weeks ago that everyone in Nagykovacsi does their grocery shopping on Saturday morning and it is a village party that I don’t want to miss. I take the 10:30am bus #63 up the hill to avoid the awkward crossing on the bridge and get off at the second stop for the “Tej (milk) shop”. At 10:35 I say good afternoon in Hungarian to the woman behind the counter that is warming to me. (This is the third time I’ve seen her. I first met her a few weeks ago when Madgi , a local secretary from my school, introduced me and helped me order some fresh goat and sheep cheese). I place my glass bottles on the counter, which she fills from milk that had been drawn and chilled in the morning, and I pick three bottles of fresh fruit yogurt from the small fridge. Since Zambia, I’ve come to think that finding local raw dairy with its local helpful bacteria is a good health tip. Mostly, I just find that I can digest it better than typical store bought milk.
Then I continue on the cobblestone sidewalk along the homes and picket fences to the bakery when a strong flashback hits me. It is so strong I have to pause for a moment. I am about 17 years old in a high school French class. My teacher is talking about how Europeans do their grocery shopping. That they carry their baskets from small shop to small shop picking up the items that they want on their way home from work. Even as a teenager, the idea seemed sensible and romantic and yet I had never been grocery shopping for a family. As an adult, being able to shop in my own village for a- weeks- worth of groceries by using my own feet and public transportation seems economically wise and ecologically responsible. Yes, my small town in Talent, Oregon supported this concept to a degree but making it to the goat milk on the hill required a car and the local grocery store wouldn’t make the personal effort to arrange for a box of produce gathered from an organic market just for me. I realized in that moment how much I appreciated living a simple life and at the same time equally craved easy and frequent access to a city café, art museums, live theatre, and music events. I stopped in my tracks for a moment trying to soak in the moment of awareness. The lifestyle I had been craving was right before me. I could see the personal and professional puzzle pieces which lead up to the present moment and thought to myself, “You know Shannon, you are leading an interesting life. It feels like you are on the right track.” I encouraged the French class memory and feelings to linger.
Adjusting the sacks in my hand I slipped through the wooden gate and into the bakery. I bought just one round loaf of bread called “Burgonyas Kenyer” and headed back to the same sidewalk on the same side of the street towards the church and now headed for “Bio Bolt”. I let the flashback memory seep into my bones and the awareness that in this moment I was living a part of my life, which I always wanted to live. Consciously, I breathed one wave of joy in and surrendered the memory of raw Zambian peanut butter. I stepped into the bio store and introduced myself to the young Hungarian couple behind the wooden counter and gawked at the box on the counter, which had been stored for me. Earlier in the morning they had visited the organic produce market in the city to collect items on a list I had emailed them earlier in the week. As I motioned to pack the box into my fabric sacs, the husband offered to take me home with his car. Modestly and happily I agreed. It was 11:30 a.m. on a beautiful sunny fall day in Hungary.
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