I Speak…
Kolik jazyků znáš, tolikrát jsi člověkem.
You live a new life for every new language you speak.
If you know only one language, you live only once.
(Czech proverb)
"You need room?" a little Hungarian woman asks as swarming crowds bump and jostle the oversized pack strapped to your back. She pushes a three-ring binder in your face and rapidly flips the pages, jabbing a finger at low-quality digital pictures exclaiming, "Bathroom. Kitchen. Very nice."
"How much?" you ask wiping the sweat from your brow while fully comprehending your surroundings for the first time; vendors line the walls selling baked goods, cheap CDs and DVDs, and knock-off clothing, watches, sunglasses.
"Six thousand forints," she answers in a thick Hungarian accent. "How much is a forint?" you think, and she recognizes the confusion on your face. "Twenty-five euros," she adjusts her price. "Good price, you like. We go," she pressures, grabbing you by the forearm and escorting you towards the train tracks. You notice the name of the station: Kóbánya-Kispest. Where? It's in Budapest, somewhere.
You don't want a room though. You just need to catch a train at the main station. But Budapest has three main stations. Okay. No problem, take this line to Deák Ferenc tér and transfer to the M2 line, which runs straight to Keleti Pályaudvar.
You know you should've studied your phrasebook. But you don't completely feel lost because you can't speak the language. Just a little out of place. You can still get around the city, figure things out, and solve any dilemmas. That's the easy part. The problem is not being able to speak the language. The problem is you feel stupid and ignorant. There's an entire world happening around you, a new culture with ancient histories and traditions, and you can't even say hello.
***
The train leaves Keleti for a small town on the shore of Hungry's largest body of water, Lake Balaton. All the windows are down. As humid air rushes into the car and washes over your face, you can finally peal your shirt away from your sticky, sweaty body. The train lurches to a metallic stop in the Siófok station, and you cross the tracks while wondering where to go next. Now no one speaks English. There's no tourist office. A man in the lobby awkwardly points you in the direction of… well, some direction anyway.
You wander with your pack weighing you down and the sweat beginning to streak your forehead again. There are no hotels in sight but a middle-aged man yells in your direction from behind his waist-high chain link fence. He's wearing small nylon shorts and a gold chain lies in a nest of gray chest hair, which covers his healthy gut. A sign on his fence is written in several languages, none of which are English. But the German portion reads "ZIMMER FREI."
You just spent some time in Germany during the opening festivities for the World Cup and boned up on your German before leaving. The close proximity of European nations means many Europeans are multilingual, speaking two, three or four languages, including English.
He speaks Hungarian, no English. But, like the sign you read, he also speaks some German. He's had lodgers from around the world, mostly Europeans. He's never had an American renter before. He shows you the room, explains the kitchen and bathroom, introduces you to his wife. You negotiate a price. He continues to chat in German, letting you in on a little secret. "There's a nice hotel down by the lake with a pool that you can just sneak into." At this point you've learned one Hungarian word: köszönöm, thank you.
***
Sixteen teams remain. Soon to be eight after this round and Italy is playing Ukraine. The Gelateria is on the Pest side of the Danube, but it’s full of Italians. No incomprehensible Hungarian is heard and the television is set to Rai Uno.
You may still be in Hungary, but the Italian you've studied for three years come rushing to your tongue surrounded by posters of Roberto Baggio and Italian flags. You order some vino and an antipasto. You realize everyone else already reserved their table hours before the match, but the staff lets you keep your small corner post by the bar because you're wearing your azzurro. The padrone greets patrons with a warm embrace and a kiss on each cheek as they pour in before kick off. This everyday gesture, always concurrent with a "ciao," evokes memories of seeing friends at the cafés back in Italy. You understand how welcome everyone feels because the friendly ambiance includes you too, and you know why everyone is here: to watch the national squad.
The whistle blows. Waiters weave between the cramped tables like Luca Toni between defenders. Six minutes in, necks crane toward the screen, and someone screams "VAI VAI!" when the shouts, cheers and claps instantaneously resound, muffling the announcer's "GOOOOOOAAAALLLL!" You're immersed in the atmosphere around you. You feel the passion in your blood while sharing this moment with the Italian fans. Arms outstretched above your head, you turn to the tables around as your cries of "FORZA AZZURRI" return chants of "FORZA ITALIA!" and handclaps.
And the best part is… there are still 84 minutes left to chat with your amici italiani… and a bottle of vino rosso to share.