“Reservation!” That’s the only word I could comprehend. It’s the only word that held any meaning; any value. Not an hour into a mid-morning train ride across the Hungarian countryside from Budapest to Miskolc, I had a run-in with a Hungarian train conductor. It’s in these routine, common-place interactions where communication is most taken for granted and yet effective communication is most important. This is by no means a tale of effective communication.
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The night before our departure for Miskolc, I was already feeling a bit uneasy about the trip. The language barrier in Hungary had already proven more substantial than any I had encountered before. While I had managed to make due up until that point in the trip, moving from the cosmopolitan metropolis of Budapest to Miskolc, a non-tourist destination, raised deeper concerns about the extent to which the language barrier would be amplified.
My perception of Hungarian as an impenetrable language could be due to the fact that those Hungarians around Budapest seem to mumble and slur words together so much that it sounds like incomprehensible gibberish instead of distinct words and phrases. However, more likely than not the language’s impenetrable nature has to do with the fact that nobody understands how it originated or from where it was derived. Thus it is different from anything you will ever hear or encounter elsewhere. It is unique in that it bears no resemblance to any other language in the area and it closest linguistic relative is, strangely enough, Finnish. They say that Hungarian is the most difficult language in the world to learn, and, after this trip, I can attest to the truth of that statement.
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When the morning of our departure arrived, I had begun to feel more confident about the likely success of our trip. A hot shower and a good night’s sleep had rejuvenated me and restored my confidence. The morning started like any other. It had become routine by now. First, I load my clothes into my stuff sack and compress them down, tightening each strap in turn to minimize space. The clothes go into the pack first—the need to access them while in-transit is minimal. Next, my raincoat and jacket go into the bottom pocket for easy access. Then, all of my electronics and books are placed in my day pack and it’s jammed into the remaining space near the top of my backpack. After pulling up my socks and tying my shoes, I throw the backpack over my shoulders, buckle all of the straps, and I’m ready to go.
We made it to the train station just in time, and after a successful bilingual exchange with the lady at the ticket counter, we had two tickets to Miskolc in our hands and were ready to go. The train was no different from any other we had been on in Europe. We skipped the first class car and went straight to second class—we had made the mistake of sitting first-class in the Czech Republic, but the kind conductor informed us we were in the wrong car and pointed us in the right direction. We easily found two open seats in a nearly empty train and sat down to the breakfast we had picked up along the way.
About 20 minutes into the trip, the conductor came around to check tickets. I’d been through this process so many times, in so many languages, that I wasn’t concerned. I’d mastered the simple art of handing my ticket to the conductor and taking it back after he confirms its validity. Yet this time was different. It wasn’t quite so simple. I always held onto the tickets for both Kati and myself. I handed both tickets to the conductor and he seemed to approve and handed them back to me. Then he approached Kati clearly seeking her ticket. In an attempt to head off any encounter between the two, I kindly gave him the tickets back, pointing to the tickets and then pointing to Kati and myself, indicating that my tickets were for both of us. It was then that everything went wrong. For some reason, having two tickets was sufficient for my trip, but insufficient to cover both of us. Then he spoke the only word I understood: “Reservation.” “These seats are reserved?” I asked. He nodded his head in apparent understanding. I pointed to our tickets and toward the car immediately behind us. He was unphased. No response. I pointed to the car immediately in front of us. “Reserved?” I asked. No response. No nod.
My Hungarian is limited to a few choice expressions I have written down in a little black, leather-bound book I carry with me everywhere. My first instinct was to try to use signs to ask if we were in the wrong seats and, if so, where we were permitted to sit by our tickets. My efforts were to no avail. The only result was that he reached into his fanny-pack and pulled out a small computer, reading “720 HUF”—720 Hungarian forints, equivalent to just under $4. Again, I attempted to use signs coupled with English to convey my point. I could see the ivory glaze roll over his eyes. It was clear that we were from two vastly different floors of the Tower of Babel.
I made the first attempt to breach the language barrier by grabbing my trusty black book. Quickly flipping to the page of Hungarian phrases I’d jotted down, I found what I was looking for. I kindly looked at the man, pointed to the tickets in his hand and asked, “Hol?” “Where?” He chuckled, and just pointed again at the digital display reading “720 HUF.” By this point I was frustrated…exasperated, and the conductor was growing increasingly and visibly annoyed. To head off any further and more severe confrontation, I paid him the 720 forints he was demanding and resolved to stew in my own annoyance. In return for my payment, I received a small receipt. It contained no seat numbers, no “reservation” and no identifiable information other than the clear and distinct fact that I paid “720 HUF.”
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