Hungarian wedding and logic - by expat Amrit Chima

Homemade apricot pálinka with homemade tomato juice.
Beyond the table,

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 myhand?....

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 went on a trip (...)

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.

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

usual resolve to be healthy. I admit it. I ate three squares. So what?

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.

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.

Mika Tivadar. Another cool bar.

Kőleves (translated to Stone Soup).
Where I have Hungarian lessons with Attila

Read Amrit's full blog article at http://www.amritchima.com/Amrit_Chima/My_Blog__Whatever_That_Means/Entries/2011/10/31_October.html

Thanks for the contribution to Amrit Chima, an American novelist living now in Budapest