-Once I missed a day of blogging, it was like falling off a diet and buying two boxes of pastries. It was all downhill. Daily blogging was just a little too ambitious for me, but while I wasn’t always writing, I was always speaking.

-I had a great Hungarian lesson this week and I didn’t even get misty. No tears. I made mistakes and got frustrated, but I laughed instead. I’m sure my teacher was relieved.

-Today, I ran some errands and kept speaking Hungarian even when people were willing to switch to English. I was shocked by how much I understood, and I tried to use that boost to speak. Bystanders were almost always smiling at me when I left a counter, even after my cobbling together of sentences with the clerk meant everyone did some waiting.

-I’ve had offers from people to do language exchanges — hanging out for an hour and speaking English for thirty minutes, then Hungarian for thirty minutes. In November I plan to accept those kind offers. Also, I’m going around the house talking to myself in Hungarian. I’m just like my neighbor now.

-I’m not sure what I’ll do with this project and blog in November. If I have entertaining things to report, I’ll craft them into something and share it. Thanks for following along in my first nervous steps. Here’s hoping the path is leading somewhere grand.

-pmj

So, how did it go? was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Another perk: I have a dear friend here who is like a little sister to me. She’s the one who I blame for my language interest when people as why I am learning Hungarian. She told me that one of her close friends now wants to meet me. She thinks anyone who is trying to learn Hungarian must be very nice. This helped me immensely. Instead of the usual self-flagellation when I can’t conjugate a verb or think of a word, I try hard to remember that I must be a very nice person.

Many people ask if I am Hungarian. As far as I know, it’s isn’t a part of my lineage. However, through my lovely friends here, my time spent here, and the amount of Hungarian food I have consumed, surely it’s in my blood by now.

My brother and I had a long talk last night (in English) about language learning. I have a tendency to want to seclude myself somewhere, look over the books and flashcards, write out exercises and letters, practice in secret, and then step into the world fluent as hell. Of course, this isn’t how it goes. Of course, I have to say things are in when they are at, or with when they are from. I have to add and drop syllables, and forget how to pronounce everything when one of my kind friends waits for a recitation. In German, I randomly assigned Der, Die, and Das for two years before almost discarding them completely, and I managed life in Vienna. It can’t happen in private, it has to come in the form of public humiliation and correction.

So this is a Hungarian line I know by heart by now: A legnagyobb akadályom önmagam. My biggest obstacle is myself.

If Facebook ads are any indication, I seem to be in the middle of something. I’m getting a lot of ads for English-speaking therapists in Budapest. It’s a good guess, Fb! I would say that the last month — the last few months — has been a sort of retreat and an exploration of my brain and reactions. I’m not sure if it was useful for anyone else, but it’s been good for me and almost enough time wallowing in the misery of humiliation. From the moving “Franny and Zooey,” by J.D. Salinger:

“Why are you breaking down, incidentally? I mean if you’re able to go into a collapse with all your might, why can’t you use the same energy to stay well and busy?”

I think this particular project has helped me to talk about things I normally wouldn’t discuss. I much prefer to appear pulled-together, instead of falling-apart, but the candor has helped me pull myself up more than I expected. So this is a win even if I don’t know the word for it.

-pmj

Surely it’s in my blood by now. was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I caught him without even trying this week. He was just heading for the elevator as I went out. He held the door for me, in case I wanted to take the elevator down. As I locked the door to our floor, I didn’t want to hold him up, so I thanked him and nodded toward the stairs. As soon as the elevator roared to life, I regretted my chance to really introduce myself and have a chat. I just wasn’t prepared to meet my elusive neighbor in this way.

Later, as I walked back from my errands, we passed each other near a local pharmacy. I smiled at the elderly man as I had back at the elevator, and because I wasn’t sure he would remember me I told him, “Jó napot, újra!” Good Day — again! He seemed to remember me. “The maniacally grinning neighbor” may be how he’d describe me to others when he got home. Yet, he couldn’t wipe that grin off my face for the next hour or so. I kept smiling as I walked home, as I set to work, as I made a plan for what to say when we met again.

I think everyone is somehow a stand-in for my grandparents. Perhaps this will be at the other end of these weepy lessons, my frustrated flashcard practice, and my panic when it’s time to speak. Perhaps I will start with some patient, elderly pals who have the free time to let me struggle with my sentences.

-pmj

Good Day (Again)! was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I didn’t check with anyone. I didn’t ask my teacher. I didn’t run it by my friends. I just did a little research, considered myself correct, and headed out in unwarranted confidence.

Thankfully, I only tried “Boldog Nezmeti Ünnepek” with three confused elderly ladies. From each I received the reply of, “Tessék?” Pardon? For a direct translation, I was wishing people “Happy National Holiday!” So that does seem a bit odd, but they did have a whole military band and horses, so I was sure there had to be a way to celebrate it with a phrase.

In Turkish, there are so many phrases that help you make inroads. Not just hello, good day, or how are you. They have “Kolay Gelsin,” May It Come Easy. You say it to people at work, as a condolence for their long day, as a sort of camaraderie. I have been hunting for such things in Hungarian, but I may need to ask some experts instead of constructing my own ice-breakers.

• pmj

Pardon me? was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I met the artist. I tried complimenting her work, telling her congratulations. Gratulálok! My friend said he was surprised that I was testing my Hungarian on everyone I met. Admitting I’m learning, saying small things with decreasing volume as I lose my confidence, but keep smiling anyway.

Today I ran a few errands. When a salesgirl told me she was new there, I said, “Én is kezdő vagyok! Magyarul tanulok.” I’m also a beginner! I’m learning Hungarian. We bonded at the register. In another shop, I admitted my shyness, my mistakes in Hungarian, and this salesgirl said she felt the same way about her English. So it’s a connection now. Whereas before I might have been shamefaced and waiting quietly, I am hunting for things to say, ideas to share. If it goes horribly, I just won’t go back to that shop again, but I am back to persistence. So there’s some good news in this new week.

-pmj

Gratulálok! was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I still have this feeling that I can’t say anything. The uncertainly takes my words away so often. I am doing well in trying to read simple passages, listening to slow audio, and writing long letters that I will never send. However, I have very, very little confidence in my voice.

Interesting that 20 days into my experiment, I disregard the good days and remember the times when I was blocked, lost, or unsure. This makes me think the learning of Hungarian is bound up with some other things happening in my life, and so it is also about sorting myself out. I also heard Tim Ferriss say that there are peaks and valleys in language acquisition, so I’m looking forward to either tumbling down this mountain, or feeling more confident about the climb.

-pmj

Out to Lunch was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This summer I rented a flat in Izmir. The landlady fell behind on submitting her registrations for guests, so when the police arrived for a routine inspection of rental properties, she sort of panicked and wasn’t entirely forthcoming. My guess is that rental-check police work is not the most exciting, so when it seemed there may be something afoot, this called for action.

I heard a knock at my door. A man in a red plaid button up shirt introduced himself as a police officer and asked if I had my identification. I said it was in my room, he put his foot in my door to keep it open when I walked away. He thanked me for my passport, said he’d bring it back, and went upstairs. I was on a Skype call. I went back to my call, “Well, that’s weird, the cops are here.” And I went back to chatting. When someone knocked again, I was asked to come upstairs. I looked down at my shorts and bare feet.

“Pantolon falan bulabılırmıyım?” Can I find some pants?

He permitted it and told me to come upstairs when I was ready. I brought my driver’s license as an extra form of ID, and my phone, thinking I might need to prove I’d paid for the rental.

I entered a room with my distressed landlady, eight male police officers, and four guests from upstairs. There was a tray on the table with water and tea. I was offered refreshments as I joined. I took my place on the couch and was asked about myself. I confessed, “Amerikalıyım,” I am an American, but assured them that I could understand a lot of Turkish.

The officers went in and out on the balcony, some were on phones, some were sitting drinking tea. Because I was speaking a language I had labored to learn, and perhaps because of the whole mood of the room, I started saying things that I would never say in such a situation in English.

I told them to look at my driver’s license instead of my passport because the photo is nicer. I asked one of the senior guys why he had a different firearm than the dude next to me on the couch. I talked about my Glock back home.

They asked why I was here in a residential neighborhood instead of on the sea like other tourists. I’m writing a book, and I wanted a peaceful place. I’d stayed here before and never met a single cop. One officer read my birthday long enough for everyone in the room to do the math on my age. “Maşallah,” the last officer to figure it out offered me a blessing.

It went on for about an hour. Chit chat and phone calls. After one of the junior guys finished writing up a statement, it seemed we were wrapping up. “Çok cesursunuz,” you’re very brave, one of the officers told me.

“Like Braveheart,” another said in English.

I shrugged: “Niye? Memur beyler’den korkmalimiyim mi?” Why? Should I be afraid of the officers? “Çay verdiniz bana.” You gave me tea. “Ben hiç bir şey yapamadım dediniz.” You said I didn’t do anything wrong.

“Ama cesursunuz.” But you are brave. And I suppose if I didn’t speak the language, if I were in a room with eight cops and a conversation I couldn’t follow, I probably would have been afraid. Instead, I soaked it up. I treated it like a language lesson. I tested my skills and my slang. I felt proud of my efforts in Turkish, finally paying off in such unexpected ways.

This is why I spent all that time learning Turkish. For just such a moment — to be an insider and an outsider, to be able to break the tension, to be someone new.

So here’s hoping there’s a similar moment of glory in Hungarian, even if it’s years away. And maybe not with far too many cops, if possible.

To Be Brave was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The listening reminds me of words I recognize, but can’t recall. It gives me an opportunity to hear the sounds of the language, and to head home to look things up. This also keeps me connected to my original goal — learn enough to stop being so anxious. A foreign language can feel like a grand secret, but later you understand enough to eavesdrop and discover everyone is just talking about what they do in your native tongue: the price of things, gossip about so-and-so, things we have to do in a day, how to get where we plan to go. In any case, I have been listening, reading every written word I see, and staring at advertisements long enough to make people think the sign was a fascinating bargain.

I bought some decaf coffee in a shop and the woman at the check-out showed me that it was decaf, just making sure. “Igen. De sajnos,” I said. Yes, but unfortunately. I needed the decaf one. This made her suppress a grin. She kept that half-grin through the whole transaction. I need more things like this, short phrases or words that will set me at ease. We didn’t say much to each other, just a greeting, an acknowledgement of what was mine, wishing her a good day. These things that I couldn’t have done in the Spring, that would have left me blushing or mute, I am saying them now as though I’m just a slightly shy or reserved local. Or that’s what I tell myself since I can’t hear my accent.

-pmj

Ineffective Eavesdropping was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I wanted the chance to practice my Hungarian, so I admitted I didn’t understand, but also that: “Magyarul tanulok.” I’m learning Hungarian. Before she could react I added, “Szép idő van.” The weather is nice. She nodded and agreed. It seemed I knew enough for her to take a break from the uphill walk for some chit chat. She asked about learning Hungarian.

Most Hungarians I’ve met have an understanding that their language is tough to acquire. It’s almost a point of pride, I think. Like the time I went to a masseuse in Croatia who clicked her tongue at my stone-from-stress shoulder blades. She scolded me, “Americans!” I felt proud as could be. Yep, that’s right, we’re stressed! USA! USA!

So while most of the people I’ve met have known few people learning Hungarian from scratch, they know it’s an endeavor.

She wore lipstick. She had her hair tamed beautifully. She was cheerful, happy to listen patiently to my chopped, cobbled together sentences.

Later she asked her original question again, just in case, “Is that X street up there?” I could see the sign from there and confirmed her suspicion. We said our goodbyes, our “Szép napot!”Have a nice day. Indeed, I did.

-pmj

The Stroll was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Of course, I’m reading Hungarian authors in English translations. It’s a very poetic language from what I can tell, and I wouldn’t get that at my present reading level. I suppose I could flip through a book and grab every 50th word. It might be like a visit I had to Mass in Hungarian. Lots of “testverem,” brothers and sisters, and “Isten,” God. This isn’t enough to fall in love with a book.

However, I love what is translated as “Journey by Moonlight,” by Antal Szerb. It’s the sort of book that I have given people as a gift, and for which they have later sent me messages like, “Thanks for the weird book!” I never find it to be a downer, but I suppose it says something about me. I am generally cheerful with a taste for bleak books.

Here’s my favorite line from a book that isn’t at all sad if you keep reading. :)

“ We carry within ourselves the direction our lives will take. Within ourselves burn the timeless, fateful stars.” -Antal Szerb.

The Inspiration was originally published in Fear, Failure, and Forty-Four Letters: My Hungarian Experiment on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.