I am on a bus to Hungary. I am on a bus in Denmark, in Germany, in Austria. It is day, it is night. The kilometers roll on by.
We are in Austria, close to Wien (Vienna). We are students. We stop at the border. Everyone is OK. Not me. I have an American Passport. There is control, and control, and even control is controlled. We stop for breakfast. We are in Hungary.
Danish is spoken in Hungary and English too. Not by the Hungarians. Just by us. We eat at restaurants. We eat on the bus. We visit factories, IKEA, we taste wine and drink Russian Champagne.
I am a fly on the wall. I am a fly on the wall, at a restaurant in Budapest, together with Danes, speaking Danish. My Countrymen are nearby. They are loud. Everyone knows they are there. We are quiet. We know we are here. I am a Dane, when other Americans are present. I am a quiet Dane.
The young people think only of drinking, and discos, and sleeping. I am at a restaurant, sipping Russian Champagne, made from Hungarian Grapes, in the company of Danes. I am not a Dane.
Mickey Mouse speaks Hungarian. Everyone here speaks Hungarian. I am on a bus, heading for Austria. I have left both Buda and Pest. I have left behind the Churches with the Turkish mosque architecture, the remains of the Ottoman Empire. I have left behind the spicy bell peppers, the Russian Champagne, the American Air Base.
I am on the road to Austria, Germany, Denmark. There is only Danish spoken. So many Countries and just one foreign language spoken.
Foreign Language is only foreign to those who don’t understand it. Danish is not a foreign language.
I am not a Dane. I am an American Fly on the wall, speaking Danish.
to be continued…