“My Budapest Mom”
Veronica Child
I’ve been here before. I rushed past two old, heavy ladies shuffling by. I didn’t know if they were the same ladies I passed earlier or if all Hungarian women looked the same. I was walking in circles around a crusty, multi-level train station looking for Gabriella Ferko. Two weeks into my study abroad program, and I had finally contacted her. She wanted to take me out to brunch. We decided to meet at Déli Pályaudvar, a metro station on the edge of Budapest. Going in, I was confident in my navigation abilities. But the circular, maze-like station proved me wrong; I had no idea where I was. With growing frustration, I checked my phone. No messages. We were supposed to have met 15 minutes ago. Why am I doing this?
*
I was walking through the streets of Manhattan with Kimberley, a close family friend around my mother’s age, two months before I was to fly off to Budapest. Her blue eyes glittered with eagerness as her words hit me a mile a minute: “Budapest?! I can’t believe it! Oh, Veronica, you’re going to Budapest! That’s absolutely wonderful—you’re just going to adore it there, I can just imagine you—Oh, Veronica!”
She waved her hands about as she spoke, as if they were outlets for her pent-up excitement. I was worried this plump lady in her mid 50s would tip over in her 4-inch evening heels with the flapping. I tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t stop.
“No, no, no, that’s not the most exciting part. My best friend lives in Budapest! Oh Veronica, you’d adore her. You two would be the dearest of friends—you would get along so well! You two must meet, please do, you just need to—oh Veronica, I am so terribly excited for you!”
Just then, the advice that a jaded upperclassman once told me flashed back into my mind:
“Don’t bother getting know the people you meet while abroad; you’re never going to see them again.”
And yet here I was, already arranging to meet someone across the world. I could already taste the awkwardness, boredom, and wasted time in entertaining this friend of hers. But Kimberley was like an aunt to me—it was the least I could do. Besides, I could always cancel later.
“What a coincidence!” I said. “Sounds delightful. What is her name?”
“Gabriella Ferko, or Gabi for short,” Kimberley said with pride. She pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her contacts. “Oh please do have lunch or tea or something, that would be marvelous! I’ll send you her contact info right now.”
“Please do.” I gave her a smile, “I would love to meet her.”
*
And now, two months later, I was lost in a train station. About to give up on brunch, I suddenly felt the buzz of an incoming message: new chat from Gabriella Ferko.
Veronica, I am here. I am by the ABC. My car is white.
Having passed it twice, I knew exactly where that ABC grocery was. I shot out of the station in its direction. The street in front of the grocery was crammed with parked grey and blue cars on both sides. No white car in sight, I strained my eyes to see if any average squat Hungarian matron was texting on her phone.
Just then, a white Mercedes convertible slowly pulled around the corner. I had never seen a convertible in Budapest. I scurried toward it, frantically waving. The convertible slowed and parked in a no parking zone. The front door swung open and a lady in her late 40s stepped out and waved at me. Her blonde, curled hair bounced against her intricately patterned silk scarf as she walked towards me, her white coat flowing behind her. She had the same square jaw that was common among Hungarian faces, but her clothes, trim figure, and welcoming smile set her apart. She looked like a Hungarian Meryl Streep, and I would’ve sworn she was a retired Vogue model—if she didn’t wobble so much in her pink leather heels.
“Veronica! I am so sorry I’m so late—I got lost, all the stores have changed,” she said, her voice flowing like the amber honey sold by the hundreds of traders in the Great Market Hall. She gave me a big hug and kissed both of my cheeks, the floral undertones of her Italian perfume wrapping around me. She started to usher me into her car, “You must be starving—they eat early in America, yes?”
Before I knew it, I was sitting against the leather chair of her convertible, top down, zipping past the brick buildings of Budapest on a sunny afternoon. She was so eager to point out all the historic sights—
“Veronica, that is the Chain Bridge. It’s very beautiful; I will take you there sometime. And that is Buda Castle. There is a very good bakery nearby, we will try it.”
I was worried she wasn’t watching the road. We soon made it to the brunch place, her favorite restaurant Déryné, a bistro serving French-Hungarian fusion.
As we stepped into the mahogany interior, the waiters—dressed in a traditional black and white uniform—all rushed to welcome her. As much as this was her favorite restaurant, she was no doubt their favorite patron. She jovially responded to their greetings by saying “Jó”—Hungarian for “good,” pronounced “yo”—repeatedly, reminding me of some teenage rapper: Jó… Jó—jó jó jó jó jó jó. We were seated across the gold-rimmed bar at a leather booth. She turned to our waiter, said something in Hungarian, then turned to me with a smile, “I told them that you are new to Budapest and that you should try all the things we have to offer. Would you like to try?”
She could’ve told me to eat spiders and I would have—anything to keep her smiling. I nodded.
“Oh good! Everything here is so delicious. They have very fresh beet juice—it is my favorite. Try? How about a cappuccino first.” She turned to the waiter, “Jó, két cappuccinos. Köszönöm.”
She started to ask me the usual questions: how do you like Budapest? Where are you studying? What are you studying? But it didn’t feel like the typical adult interrogation—she didn’t once use my responses to launch into some nostalgic college story or to bestow some gratuitous words of wisdom. Instead she paused—either from thought or from finding the words to say in English, or perhaps a combination of the two—before she spoke. I too was curious to learn more about this stunning lady, and we soon fell into a natural rhythm of alternating between questions and answers.
Gabi had been born, raised, and educated in Hungary. She had been a teacher for she loved working with kids (no surprise), but quit to take care of her two sons, now grown. Her husband was a businessman who made a decent living—decent enough to have bought his family an apartment in Budapest and a house in Ontario, that is. But, sadly, he was constantly travelling.
“Sadly? That sounds so exotic,” I blurted, “You must go to so many amazing places!”
“Yes, but it is not as glamorous as it seems,” she said, with a sad smile. With her husband often gone and her sons at university, she was often without family. “Sometimes, you just want to be at home with your family.”
Blushing, I looked down, embarrassed by my insensitive outburst. I heard the ringing chimes of her laughter. I glanced up to see her smiling wide again.
“Oh Veronica, you are young! You should enjoy these things.”
After brunching for nearly three hours, I realized that I should probably head to my afternoon class. The waiters whisked away my plate, nearly licked clean. Despite my begging, she took the check. “It’s my pleasure,” she said. “Both of my boys are grown, I have no one to treat!”
After saying our good-byes to the maître d’, we got into her car and drove to my university—she insisted on dropping me off. As we neared the campus, she said, “Someday I would love to take you to Széchenyi lánchid, the Chain Bridge. It is the most beautiful bridge in Budapest. Have you been?”
“Why, no!”
That was a complete lie. Not only did I cross that bridge at least once a day to visit my friends across the Danube, but the tour bus my program hired on the first week of our program made a 40-minute stop there. But her enthusiasm was intoxicating; I wanted to see Budapest’s monuments not just from a tourist mega bus but through her eyes.
“Excellent,” she said with her heartwarming smile. “I will message you later then. Have a good day at school!”
*
We made a point to get together at least once a week. From concerts at the Liszt Academy to art installations at the Hungarian National Gallery, she took me everywhere, always with dinner or dessert included. If there was a week we couldn’t meet—she did have to fly to Italy a few times—we sent each other photos of our travels instead, sharing stories of our adventures when we’d next meet. Any academic or social anxiety I had was quickly laughed away during our outings. I had found piece of home abroad.
“I am so thankful to Kimberley and to you,” Gabi said to me one evening, as we walked down the steps of Saint Stephen’s Basilica after an organ recital. “After two sons, I’ve always wanted a daughter and, well, I think I’ve finally been given one.”
Snow collected on the ground as I made my way through the basilica’s square with my Budapest mom.
*
I watched the night lights of Budapest’s streets blur by. Gabi was driving me back to my flat after a performance of the Nutcracker. I thought the city seemed oddly quiet for a Saturday night. In reality, it was probably because this was my last night in Budapest before leaving for the States. As Gabi recounted her favorite dances from the ballet, I smiled, recalling everything we had done these past few months. The words from my senior friend flew back into my mind, and I was suddenly panicking. I imagined always having Gabi in my life, but what if she thought differently? What if I was just that one visitor, a temporary companion? Our time would have been nothing more than transitory, like having a great conversation with the person next to you on an airplane.
I was jolted out of my thoughts as she parked next to my flat. Walking me to my door, she gave me a hug. I burrowed my head into her wool scarf, scented with the same floral perfume. I tried to stay composed, fighting back tears. I thanked her profusely for driving me around, for paying for my dinners, for taking me to shows—for everything, but it didn’t seem to be enough. She wished me safe travels and said we would keep in touch. Walking away, I couldn’t help but wonder if she meant it.
*
Now two weeks into winter term, I’m headed towards the Weitz. With my face going numb in the negative degree weather, it’s hard to believe I thought Budapest’s winter of low 30s was cold. Feeling my coat pocket buzz, I pull out my phone. New chat from Gabriella Ferko. I smile as I read her texts; she just returned from a snow polo tournament in Switzerland. Taking off my mittens to message her back with my latest life updates and a snap of Carleton in mid Minnesota winter, I can’t help but think how wrong that senior was.
***
