Like most places outside of the US, traffic signals are more of a suggestion than a mandate. Odette reminded me of this in my first week here. This system of “suggested rules,” allows the citizen to truly make their own decision – rules, after all, are a choice (sometimes they can come with harsher punishments, but they are still a choice to follow or not). It is that way with illegal substances as well, possession and distribution is, of course, illegal, however if you have a small amount that you are personally using it can be “ignored” depending on what policeperson you happen to run into and how their day is going. There is a randomness to this that can both be a deterrent and a thrill. The comparison can be likened to “petting” a wild animal. Years ago, when we were dropped in the water with hundreds of sting rays (before the Crocodile Hunter was killed), there was an instant fear of what might happen, then the fear turned to awe that the sting rays would allow us to be in their territory, to stroke their smooth bodies and to take pictures with them. We acted as we would with a tame animal, all the while respecting their power and territory. The threat of being stung was still present, making the experience awesome (full of awe).
Upon crossing (standing in) the street, taking pictures of the opera house, I was met at the other side by a woman with platinum blonde hair and wide eyes filled with terror. I could only smile and say, “I’m paying attention, don’t worry.” This was the start of my beautiful encounter with a 60/70-something small exuberant woman who is the artist director of her own chamber orchestra. Perhaps it was the cheeks or the beautifully coiffed and styled hairdo or the smart matching powder blue suit she wore, or her abounding energy (that even quieted me down -- yes, I know that is a true miracle), but she reminded me so much of my deceased aunt. As we spoke more it became apparent that she and my aunt were somehow “soul sisters” separated by time and proximity, both teachers and directors of institutions, both having seen quite a colorful life (one in Hungary, one in Europe and Iran), not only that, but there was something in her eyes that was so familiar to me, like I had known her for my whole lifetime. We spoke of the Russian occupation of Hungary, the Bosnian war, her family, Hungarian jokes, the gifts of art, music and teaching…and even for only a bit about g(G)od. Although this sounds quite corny, before we parted, we had exchanged laughter, tears and love. For me, this finite encounter was also a way to remember the energy of my aunt and something already past that was gone again as soon as she went down into the underground to catch her train.
The other day (the day of my skull-cracking headache) I came across a man with a smart moustache that curled at the sides of his lips, unkempt hair a green suit and a handsome cane. In the haze of my pain, he walked straight up to me (I usually do this with other people, so it was quite unusual) and began speaking Hungarian as though we had greeted eachother many times. I told him I could not speak Hungarian and he began to speak Russian, German, French, Spanish and some broken English. He seemed a bit drunk to me and I felt a bit like death so instead of being able to pull out my camera and ask, “could I take your picture?” I was only able to excuse myself and smile as I left him. This man had been on my mind for days. I kept thinking about how he was the one person I’d like to run into again, to have a photograph of to remember because there was something about him that reminded me of my deceased uncle – again it was that unexplainable and sometimes silly sounding thing called “energy.” The strange thing was that although I did not have a photograph of the man, I could picture him perfectly in my mind. That same morning, I saw him again walking down the street. I waved and smiled at him, as though we had been doing it all our lives. I thought he might ignore me or that he had been drunk before and would perhaps not be as friendly this time for lack of libation. He stopped, turned around and began speaking to me again, calling me “California” (the last meeting he had asked where I came from). This time, I managed to understand him a bit more perhaps because I too was lucid. He told me Germenglish (German/English) that his grandchildren were in California and a few more things before I, again, had to rush off for a meeting. And unfortunately, again, I did not have my camera.
The idea of recycled people (for lack of a better word) is an interesting one. I’ve found that in my life, people (or that abstract thing called “energy”) come back again and again, until you finish your business with them. I don’t literally mean the same person comes back. Consider this concept in the most general of ways, none of us is ultimately unique, we share traits with people we’ve never even met. If we can pass on genetic traits to a generation we may never meet (our great great great grand children), why can we not pass on traits or energy via a collective conscious/unconscious. Why can people from different times and places not be the “same?” Perhaps I had met the two strangers here in Budapest to help me resolve something in my life or in theirs? The truth is that there is something about this road to Budapest, the trouble this country has been through, the pain people have shared for so many years, that makes me feel at home through empathy. The journey is somewhat akin to “going home again.” Returning for a moment to encounter all that has been and leaving once more on different terms.
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