31/03/2005

Sometimes I have the feeling I am being haunted. There was one important reason why I didn’t miss my house in Amsterdam. Since months they are restoring the house nextdoor. From early morning on they are drilling and hammering and singing and throwing and pumping and shouting and whatever else makes noise in the most irritating way. Recently they took the whole rear wall out. If I’m lucky it is finished when I come back in July. But I don’t count on it.
Three weeks ago they started working on the road in Sturovo. It started innocently, some men drawing white lines on the bumpy surface they call a road around the park near my house. Two weeks ago the drilling started. They are going to turn it into a pedestrian zone. A lot of work needs to be done. I’m afraid it won’t be finished before I leave here. The drilling usually starts early. I always have the feeling these workingmen think people don’t deserve to sleep when they are up and about already. The first thing they do at 7 o’ clock is take out their drills and shake up the neighbourhood. When everybody is awake they go for their coffee and after that they continue doing the more silent but still pretty noisy stuff.
Last Tuesday I went on a small trip. I left in the morning, outside my house the workers stood in line in a long ditch, shovels and pickaxes in their hands. They looked like serfs. Or prisoners being forced to do the dirty work. But these men get payed to do this work, although I’m afraid it isn’t much. And it didn’t look like they were enjoying it.
I walked to the trainstation, which is about three kilometres off centre. My goal was Trnava, the oldest known settlement in Slovakia. It still has an ancient city wall and seems to be worthwile visiting, although it isn’t as beautiful as it used to be (but what city is?) After two hours the train arrived, I found the hotel I had planned to spend the night and was led to my room which lay adjacent to a big courtyard. In the courtyard a small army of working men ran around accompanied by the sounds known so well so me. They were working on a new parking lot. I stared at the hotelemployee in horror. “Don’t worry”, she said, “they stop at three o clock”. “And when do they start tomorrow morning?” I asked in return. “About seven, half past seven”, she replied. She must have seen the frustration on my face, because before I could follow my instincts and ran out the frontdoor of the hotel, she had called one of the men and discussed the matter. “Okay”, she said, “they won’t start before ten”. I cheered and threw my bags in my room. Silence at last.
The next morning the working men woke me up at seven fifteen. They didn’t bring the heavy drills, but all the hammering and shouting was enough to wake up a deaf person. I complained, ate the funniest breakfast I ever ate in a hotel (they served eggs only, you could choose in what shape you wanted to have them, a glance in the open kitchen showed big piles of those cartboard things eggs are stored and sold in lying around everywhere) and continued my trip. The next goal was Nitra. A trip by bus this time, followed by a nice walk from the station to the centre and after a quick visit to the information office I found the perfect hotel. Fancy but not too fancy, cheap, but not too cheap, nice big room with a nice big bed at the backside of the hotel, windows looking out on a small empty courtyard with a big tree. Perfect. I unpacked the little items I brought with me, sat on the bed and felt the floor shake. A terrible noise followed. Then above my head the drilling started.

30/03/2005

30/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

29/03/2005

29/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

28/03/2005

28/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

20/03/2005

Two days my house was open to the public. There was Dutch jazz music, the best wine from Sturovo, all the things I made in the last two months and a lot of people of whom I knew some already.
The mayor wasn’t there, nor was the deputy mayor, the ladies from the local galery, the director from the Culture House, my neighbours from the “selfgovernment” or the journalist from the Hungarian newspaper.* But we didn’t miss them since all the interested people were here.
They came from Bratislava, Budapest, Esztergom and Sturovo. Some were young, some were old, some spoke some English or German, some I couldn’t understand. There was a Slovak man who’s daughter was living in Holland and who could speak a couple of words in Dutch: “mooie kerstboom” (nice christmas tree) and “schakelaar” (switch) . We had a very nice conversation. There was a woman I had never met before who brought me flowers from her own garden.There was a man who had birthmarks on his arm resembling the stellar constellation of Cassiopeia. He posed next to a video of mine showing a hand with a pen drawing lines between the birthmarks on somebodies back. There were two young girls who turned into very helpfull translators. There was a couple bringing us home made cake and local grapa. There were people who didn’t talk, only listened and looked. There were people who didn’t look or listen, only talked.

It was a wonderful weekend and so nice having all them here, but I still don’t have a clue what they think about all this. About the music, the drawings, the videos, the Bridge Guard Residency. Asking straight out doesn’t help. Maybe people are afraid to say something. Maybe having an opinion about art or art presentation isn’t valued highly. When I speak out (always respectful but nevertheless critical) at the openings I attend people also tend not to hear what I’m saying and talk around it. It’s a pity. We could learn from each other

* I found out later there was a journalist present but he didn’t introduce himself as being a journalist. He wrote a piece in the Esztergom newspaper which I am still unable to read, but I’m very curious what he says.

18/03/2005

18/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

17/03/2005

After two days Budapest Albert and I travel back to Sturovo. It has been six weeks since he left. I remember our very first day here. We crossed the bridge, went up to the Esztergom basilica to overlook Sturovo and the Danube. Standing there, Albert saw an owl for the first time in his life.
It is already getting dark when we arrive at the house. The temperature in the courtyard is still okay, we put two chairs outside and drink a Slovak beer. Silently, a bird lands on one of the lower branches of the huge tree in the middle of the courtyard. We look up, the owl looks down and doesn’t move for a couple of minutes. Then it flies of again.

15/03/2005

The Ferihegy National Airport is pretty small for a city as big as Budapest. It lies about 24 kilometres southeast of the city centre. Travelling here from Sturovo takes a couple of hours. I’ve counted the days. Since yesterday I’ve counted the hours. My beloved is due to arrive at twelve.

A Danish couple approaches me. Do you speak english? I do. They sigh relieved. None of the taxibusdrivers want to take them to the centre of Budapest. The deskemployees pretend not to understand any English. How to get to Budapest? Is there a bus? I explain them there is, but not a straight one. Next to me some German travellers curse. The ticketmachine for the bus only takes coins and the busdriver doesn’t want to sell them a ticket in the bus, even though he should. I change their money, they buy a ticket, but the busdriver slams the door shut in front of their faces and hits the road. I leave them with their anger and go for a cup of coffee. I order a normal cappucino and get an extra large and extra expensive one. I get the feeling they don’t really like tourists here.

The plain is delayed. I wait. I enjoy the waiting. There is a flowermachine to look at, you throw in money and you get a bunch of flowers to give to your beloved one. Some people actually buy the flowers. There are people looking for somebody they only know by name. I regret I didn’t bring a big sign saying “ALBERT”. I trie to buy a sandwich but can’t get myself to pay the prize I wouldn’t even pay in Amsterdam for a sandwich. I get lost when I walk to the other terminal and get unlost again. The plain arrives. I stand among the waiting crowd. I don’t need a sign. The name “Albert” is written all over my face.

14/03/2005

I’m invited to visit the primary school today. It is a monday. A sunny day. It even seems to be warmer than before. You don’t only feel it, you can smell it as well. From my window I see people walking the street. They carry bags and babies.
At eleven thirty I take my bike and cross my street. Cars are parked everywhere. In the main street the sidewalk is packed with people. They eat icecreams and walk in a long line. Like the ants crossing my kitchen floor in the morning. Where did they come from? What are they doing here? I’ve never seen that many people in Sturovo. Or did I? I’m getting confused. Is it because of the lunch hour? Because of the beautiful weather? It must be the weather.

When I enter the school I hear singing. Three men jump out of their car. They wear long blue cloaks and stumble over their swords. One of them resembles a guy from the Dutch television. He locks the car, straightens the feathers on his helmet and opens the schooldoor. I follow them. Inside all the children are gathered. Everybody is wearing a ribbon in the colours of the Hungarian flag. I suddenly remember somebody telling me about the Day of the Revolution.

In the early 19th century the Habsburg empire began to weaken as Hungarian nationalism increased. Certain reforms were introduced: the replacement of Latin as the official languafe of administration with Magyar, increased Hungarian representation in the council of State, a law giving serfs more rights.
But the reforms carried out were still too limited and the wave of revolution sweeping Europe spurred on the more radical faction. On 15 March 1848 a group calling itself the Youth of march, led by the poet Sandor Petofi, took to the streets to press for even more radical reforms and revolution. This day is celebrated as the 1848 Revolution or national Day. The celebration starts already on 14 March.

I chat with the schooldirector about some plans for a project with the kids and go home again. There are even more people outside now. They are everywhere, walking and walking. The bridge is jammed on both sides, the park near my house is filled with people. I’m curious what will happen today and when. They must be here for some reason, some special event will surely happen, maybe music or speeches, I didn’t see posters, where will the action be? I don’t want to miss it. I try to figuer out their main direction but there doesn’t seem to be one. I ask some people but they don’t understand me. I better find somebody who speaks some English.

The director of the Museum is in. I ask my question, hoping I’m not too late. He seems to be surprised about my excitement, shakes his head and tells me there is no more action than what I’ve seen already. This is what they are here for. To walk the streets, cross the bridge, buy things at the local shops, eat icecreams.

So I walk the streets and buy myself a big icecream. I cross the bridge twice and buy some food at a small shop. I take a photo or two and walk back to my house. The sun is still shining but there is just enough wind to let the Hungarian flags fly.

11/03/2005

Walking home I pass three man standing around an old car. They’re waiting for something in front of the city hall. My house is just around the corner. They look a little sleezy. They stop me, two of them start speaking. There aren’t a lot of teeth left in their mouths. They’re not that old though. Are they curious about my equipment? Do they want to ask something? In my best Hungarian I tell them I don’t speak Hungarian. They start pointing at the other side saying “Ungarn”, “Magyar”. I nod. Hungary is over there. I know. Again they start pointing. “Hid”, “Bridge” they say now. I nod. I point at myself and say “Hídör”, “Bridgeguard”. They nod and laugh. Are they making fun of me? I want to walk on, they start to talk again, point at the other side, again telling me “bridge!” and “Hungary!” I point in the direction of my house, point at myself and say “haz”, “Parkanban lakik”, “I life in Sturovo”. They laugh. Do they understand? Are they drunk? Do they speak Slovak only? I wave and move on. One of them grabs my arm. He’s shaking his head, saying “Nem!”, “No!”. Again he’s pointing at the other side, making a wide armgesture. “Bridge!” “Hungary”. Now I get it. They think I’m walking in the wrong direction. They want to show me the way to the bridge. They’re trying to help. They want to make sure the silly tourist girl doesn’t get lost. They’re being nice.

Is it because spring is getting near? Is it because people are getting used to my face? Is it because I look different at the world? I have the feeling people open up. They stop at my windows to look at my photos (there are five photos hanging there. I change one every day). They start to talk to me on the streets. My Hungarian language course hasn’t helped me so far. My best Hungarian is still “I don’t speak Hungarian”. I can say “I can speak a little Hungarian” too, but that’s too risky. Then people start talking slowly in Hungarian, hoping I might answer. The good thing is that I can use my other sentence then, “Nem értem”, “I don’t understand”.

Somebody taught me some usefull words. “Lehet”: possibly. “Talán”: possibly. “Holnap”: tomorrow. “Esetleg”: maybe. “Után”: later. They are used a lot. Everything is possible and will happen tomorrow. And if it doesn’t happen tomorrow it happens later on. The day after tomorrow. Or next week. Possibly.

07/03/2005

I cross my bridge. The border patrol knows about my function but has to check my passport anyway. When Bush was in the neighbourhood the Slovak guards even scanned it every time I passed. I told them they should send all the copies to Bush when he would be safe again in his White House. It would make a nice wallpaper. And he would like the fact they are taking all this effort for him.

It hasn’t become ordinary to walk the bridge. How could it ever be? Walking over this massive but elegant construction, the Danube flowing under my feet, Hungarian hills to the left and right and in the middle the impressive Esztergom basilica. The moment your left foot is already in Hungary while the right one is still in the Slovak Republic. The sound of wind and water and moaning iron.

I go left and walk along the bank. More than thirty swans accompany me for a while. It makes me feel like a heroine from an old Greek tale. The Danube wind is treacherous. The more photos I take, the less feeling I have in my fingers. I pass strange round buildings, presumably out of use border crossingpoints, no need to sneak over the border secretly any more. The grey shells in the sand grow bigger and bigger. The wind gets colder and colder. In the distance a big house in hanging in the air. I trie to reach it but the water bars my way. Might it be a fata morgana? Did my fingers freeze, am I hallucinating? I am on the other side now. Everything is possible.

When I walk back I’m being followed by sixty six hungry swans. Some of them proudly wear a yellow plastic necklace. At a nearby supermarket I buy a head of lettuce. When I cross the bridge again I throw it over the railing. The sound of swan wings is one of the most beautiful sounds I know.

05/03/2005

04/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

04/03/2005

There is another opening in the museum tonight. I didn’t know. I wasn’t invited. I found out because I saw some nicely dressed people walking out at five thirty and I remembered the small army of workmen sweeping the courtyard this morning. That only happens when something special is going on.

I get angry, walk to the museum (20 metres) to hit the director on the head but he is faster then me and bows down to kiss my hand and apologize. In these things I’m old-fashioned. If somebody kisses your hand you can’t hit him. He even hugs me, and hugs me again and again. He must feel really sorry. He pours me some homemade wine -in Holland people have allotment gardens (volkstuintjes), here people have vineyards- and shows me the exhibition in person. It appears to be valuable material, on loan from Budapest. I remember the policemen banging on my window some night last week because the alarm went of in the Museum and they didn’t know who to call. I took their photo, four smiling men in black uniforms waiting for a nervous museum director to bring the key. No burglar was found, everybody went home, I slept sound that night. Why worry when the policemen are your neighbours and the museum nextdoor has far more valuable objects to choose from than you have? Although I’m not sure a thief would prefer paintings of hairy hungarian pigs to my computer. They were nice by the way. The paintings, I mean. And the policemen too.

The director offers me another drink in his office and invites me for anything he can possibly think of. The next opening in the town galery next wednesday, his vineyard, his winecellar, the rehearsal that evening of the local theatre company. He plays the role of prince. He will be wearing a fine costume and sing a beautiful song. I suspect from the look in his eyes he prefers being a prince to being a museum director.
It is tempting to go and see the rehearsal but I have other things on my mind. It does explain the kiss on the hand though.

03/03/2005

03/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

01/03/2005

It is cold in Sturovo. With this bright blue sky it looks like spring, but the eye deceives. A cold wind chills the bones. Yesterday I was outside all afternoon, when I got home I couldn’t get the chill out of my body. Today I feel sick.
I don’t want to leave the house but there’s nothing to eat. Dressed up like an eskimo I head for the local supermarket. It is just before twelve. Fifteen minutes before everything closes.
In the hall of SAMA customers are waiting. At the other side of the door the saleswomen are waiting. The light is off. The door is locked. I check my watch. 11.50. I trie the small shop at the other side of the street. I open the door, lights are off, three women stare at me. I trie to ask them if I can go inside, I trie English, I trie German, I trie my baby-Hungarian, I trie handlanguage. They don’t move, they don’t answer, they smile and ignore me when another customer gets in and asks a question which is probably the same as mine.
I walk back to SAMA but it is twelve already. I head back home, shall I take my bike and go to the big supermarket? I don’t feel like it. And I know there’s always something edible left in the far end of my cupboard. Besides I’m dying for some coffee.
When I open the fridge there’s a dark hole. No light. I look at the coffee machine with some regret. The only thing I can do is wait. This happens every now and then. The whole city, or at least the whole center, has to do without electricity.
So I wait and type untill my computer’s battery is dead.