Bus Etiquette 101

My apologies for the gap since my last post, but I have never been one to consistently keep up with any 'diary' of sorts. (Look at me, apologizing to the family members I've bribed to follow me, like people really care...) But in fact, I do believe there is a diary somewhere in my room at home that I started while I was at Valley View Middle School. I made one entry each time I dusted it off during a deep clean of my room, and always managed to have a laugh looking back at what I had written in my ever so insightful youth. However, this will be different, I will keep this blog up to date, so here goes September in a nutshell...

I teach in 2 elementary schools that are in very small towns outside of Szeged, so I have become quite familiar with the public transportation system here, because I leave the city to teach 3 days a week. The rest of the week I teach in a high school that is a 20 minute walk from my flat. But for the majority of my life, public buses have been a completely foreign mode of transport. One exception being the day I went with my dad to his fire station on 'Bring your Daughter to Work Day' and we used the Park and Ride. As a 12 year old girl, I blindly followed my dad and got onto the bus I was told, sat where I was told, and got off wherever he pulled me. Here, I know which bus will take me where, where the most convenient stops are, and I choose where to sit, which is far more complicated than it may seem.

I'm not familiar with public bus etiquette by any means, so this aspect of my transportation education has been quite entertaining. I have been loosely basing my seat choice on my somewhat limited knowledge of the men's restroom urinal etiquette: Find the one that has at least one open on either side, and if there aren't any, stand by the door and wait. This method has served me well, except on one bus. The bus to Sandorfalva. (cue dramatic soundtrack) The bus to Sandorfalva (Mom, it's pronounced SHAN-door-fall-vuh) begins as all other bus rides do. I use my knowledge of 'urinal etiquette' to find my seat, which is usually one on the right side of my bus so I can see my stop as we circle the church in the main square. After I've carefully chosen my seat, I continue on the 35 minute ride, astounded at the number of bodies people are willing to cram into one bus. No less than 5 minutes into my journey, all apparent etiquette is thrown to the wind and I find myself wedged between the window and some old woman with a lap full of live poultry and a basket of vegetables at her feet. This bus brings back the stories my grandpa used to tell me about his means of transport to and from school when he was a kid. "Beans" the horse may as well be crammed onto the bus to Sandorfalva too, he'd probably be a little more aware of my personal bubble. By the time I exit the bus at my final destination, I'm lucky to have all my limbs intact, as I must climb over old ladies with their birds and veggies, and high school sweethearts making out in the congested aisles in order to get to the doors.

Apart from my experiences on the public transportation, I've come to appreciate the company of native English speakers more and more every day. I spend my days with children from the ages of 9-17 in classrooms, and after the final bell at 2:05, I almost never hear anyone speak English. That is, except for all my close friends on CNN and BBC Entertainment, (as they are always filling my apartment with the latest news of the Chilean miners, the UN General Assembly, or re-runs of Strictly Come Dancing) and the occasional Skype video chat. So when my friends from CETP came down to Szeged last weekend, it was incredible to have real people in my apartment, not just voices. We ventured out into the night Friday and found what may have been the biggest congregation of metrosexual men in all of Europe at a club called Sing Sing. Ok, that may be an exaggeration, but the other 3 girls and myself had a hell of a time pointing and giggling at the guys wearing fanny packs paired with skinny jeans, and the product infused, flatironed hair. We had such a good time Friday that we returned the next night to dance well into the night enough for some of us who will remain unnamed to remove our shoes for the walk home. I took a cab.

The only other actual, living, breathing person who has visited my apartment is my private student named Gabi. She is an adorably shy 40 year old divorcee with a 13 year old son. She is really hard on herself and becomes easily frustrated at a single mistake or unknown vocab word, so it's really exciting to see her succeed. Today, Gabi had a good day, and I think she is giving me my first taste of why teachers do what they do. In my classes it's a bit difficult when I transition from teaching colors and body parts to excited 5th graders, to pulling teeth to get the 11th graders to talk about anything other than American rap and touching their body parts. I am yet to see those students struggle through a class and really be proud of themselves in the end. It's only the first of October.