Displaced Oddities

My partner of eight years, Kate, has extended family in Hungary. On our jaunt down Europe we took a detour to the small town of Bocs in the northeast with Kate’s father’s cousin (oh I’m only getting started) who knew a bit of English.

We stop at our destination. It’s not a train station. More like a road that ends where a train station usually would be. Waiting for us are four round, friendly faces. We meet Kotchi, Kate’s Nanna’s brother, his son, his son’s pregnant wife, and our guide’s sister’s cousin I think? I don’t even know anymore. From now on everyone is a cousin ok?

They take us to their house in town where they sit us down and start offering us what I assume is traditional 10am shots of schnapps. We meet more cousins, one of which is Kotchi’s wife. Our translator/cousins try to relay messages back and forth but it seems as though we’re communicating better by taking a shot and hearing Kotchi yell triumphantly as everyone else laughs.

Things are a bit blurry but we’re outside now. Kotchi is showing me his power tools. He mimes how he uses them, slashing through the air while making noises. Out the back they have a small vineyard separating them from their neighbour. They give the girls crinkled water bottles of sweet purple wine to drink. It stains their lips. One of them sneaks theirs to me. The house on the other side of the vines is actually their son’s house. I agree with Kotchi fervently that it is very convenient. Language is no barrier now. We’re on the same level. He says the word ‘harem’ as he points at me and then the girls. I die a little inside.

It’s lunchtime now. I sneak a look in the kitchen. There are at least twelve cousins in there cooking up a storm. We sit around a heavy wooden table. Kotchi gives me the biggest bottle of beer I’ve ever seen. Good thing too. I was getting thirsty.

I won’t lie. I have gaps. I remember dancing to live music. I remember unrelenting encouragement from Kotchi to just have one more drink. I remember the soup. It was simple, just some yellow oily broth and a few tiny pieces of floating pasta. However when you tasted it, it was so much more. It was like each spoonful was the biggest warmest hug you could imagine. I remember the goodbyes.

It’s funny how we define family. These people are on the other side of the world, they are barely related to one of us, but despite all of that they made us feel right at home.