Perils of The Magyar Megfázás

I am happy to report that I am back on track, both with my chapter reserves and a more personal recovery. I got walloped by a Hungarian head cold. It happened like this:

A week ago Saturday I was invited out by a couple of friends that I met when I was here in August.

“Let’s meet for a drink at Szell Kalman ter, nine p.m.”

“Delightful,” I said. “See you there.”

This was my first taste of nightlife since I’d been here, just a nibble, but it was a pleasant evening. We met at a bar on Széll Kálmán tér, a bustling transit hub on the Buda side of the city. This was a place I’d visited last summer with another friend, a place not frequented by tourists, so instantly likable. It also has a taste of the Old Budapest vibe, a gathering place for the film community, creatives, artists.

It’s a popular place, so there were no tables when we arrived, but we got a round of drinks and stood outside in the cold, which, absent any significant breeze, was chilly but refreshing.

The conversation was lively. I appreciate this pair, Dani for his easy smile and persistent curiosity, and Marton, the more serious of the two, for his quickness with a well-defined point of view. Take as an example his position on the ubiquitous sandwich press as superior to a skillet for preparing grilled cheese than a skillet. I met Dani and Marton through their production company when I was shooting here in August. I rented some great from them and wound up hiring Dani as a camera operator.

Because only a single drink in the subzero temperatures was sustainable, we went to a place next door, a subterranean establishment that shared its interior dimensions with those of an RV. Maybe a gutted RV with pop-outs, but not much larger than that. The place was also crowded, but we were able to claim the last available table.

The music was good, but so loud as to conversationally sequester those of us sitting on one side of the table from our friends on the other. I sat with Marton, and Dani sat across from us with his girlfriend, Fani (earlier he made a careful distinction in the way you pronounce her name, with a wide, open AH sound, and a sustained N: FAH-nn-ee, not to be confused, he instructed, with the British word Fanny, a euphemism for lady parts. Duly noted, Dani, thank you.)

After one drink of divided conversation, we elected to check back at Nemdebar to see if any tables had opened up. As luck would have it, Dani and Marton ran into an old friend, a gentleman named Istvan, who was there drinking with his girlfriend and another fellow both of whose names escaped me. Half of their party had just left, so they had space for the four of us.

They were all very pleasant, due in part to the quantity of holiday beverages they had obviously partaken of earlier in the evening. The conversation volleyed over a few rounds of drinks and I made a pleasant acquaintance with Istvan. We bonded over an agreement that Marton bears a striking resemblance to Donald Sutherland, so for years he has been introducing Marton as Donald's grandson, whom he sent to Hungary when he was a baby so he would know the meaning of struggle.

The man with Istvan spoke less but was generous with his cough drops, which he offered to everyone at the table, the way one might offer a breath mint or a piece of gum. Although this was a kind gesture, it struck me as curious. Was this the toll of socializing with a communicable head cold?

"Ah yes, it’s fine, so long as you share your palliatives."

Then it registered that Istvan sat back from the group and stifled a cough from time to time. I was beginning to feel trapped in a situation, which was all but guaranteed to be a micro-spreader event. Here I was the new guy, a foreigner, and far be it from me to stand up and excuse myself in the middle of a rollicking conversation because I sensed two among the party were afflicted. That would be absolutely sensible... but so rude, or so my socially awkward inner voice told me.

Moments later, Istvan’s girlfriend sniffled, fished a handkerchief from her bag, and smudged it against her nostrils.

That did it for me, but just as I was engineering my escape, in the way the drunks have a sixth sense for someone about the break from the group, Istvan leaned forward to tell me that the woman sitting to my right was beautiful, but that she claimed to have a husband.

He leaned back and with a mirthful expression said, “Well, I said, where is the husband? Where is he?” Then he leaned forward, laughed, and grasped my forearm, and I laughed, too.

This was when time slowed, like in The Matrix, when Nero faced a hail of bullets. Except instead of bullets, I was assailed by a spray of spittle from Istvan’s moist lips. Unfortunately for me, evasive maneuvers were not in my bag of tricks, so I watched one of the droplets arc across the space between us and felt it land directly on my tongue.

“Don’t react,” a voice told me. “What’s done is done. Prepare yourself for what’s coming.”

And the voice was right. There was little I could do. The pathogens were already spreading throughout the membranes of my throat and mouth like tiny cockroaches fleeing the light. Fuck, ing, hell.

Shortly thereafter, I took my leave, caught a cab back to the flat, and prepared myself to fight. But it was an illusion, a feeble show of defiance, Vitamin C, Echinacea, and some other supplement from South Asia that looked powerful and had a picture of lungs on the bottle. Bullshit. Here I am, ten days later, still clearing my lungs and sinuses, but the end is in sight.

The good news is that Stella got her groove back with the writing time (except the days when I slept until 3 PM, getting up just in time to watch the sunset) and the release schedule will soon be restored to its previous cadence.

Love to you all, and a very happy holiday…

Chip