What Has Been: Vilnius

It’s been twenty two days since I arrived in Vilnius. It’s hard to believe that I’m on the final four days of my trip. I leave Friday, August 7^th, at 6:25 am.

This is my fifth trip to Europe in the past nine years. I was married to a very lovely Hungarian lady (Vilma) which accounted for the first four trips, as we would journey to Europe to be with her family. The first trip was for three months (December 13^th, 2000 – March 13^th, 2001). We arrived two weeks before Christmas, so, as in Canada, we were heading into a very special part of the year. During the three months we were all over Hungary; its major cities, towns, and villages; we spent three weeks in Budapest. In February, went on a four day excursion to Venice for the Venice Carnival. This was my first world trip and what an amazing experience it was. Three weeks into the trip, however, I was ready to pack my bags and go home.

I sat on the edge of the bed listening to some CDs that I had brought with me from Canada. Listening to them on the little portable CD player that too, was a part of my luggage, because I wanted to make my three month stay in Hungary as “home friendly” as possible. I sat there and eventually got trapped in a song by Slade, called “The Party’s Over,” as the lyrics, “I need a miracle,” played over and over again. The song itself is a bit mellow-dramatic, and speaks of desire, loss, and yearning. It is slow and very beautiful, and can be categorized a love song.

After the fourth or fifth time, Vilma turns to me and says, “Are you alright?” I say yes, and she continues doing what she is doing. A few plays later she looks at me again and says, “You’re not alright. Something is bothering you. What is it?” I begin to speak as tears begin to fill my eyes. “You know that I’ve grown to love you, and that I’m very glad to be here with you and your family. You guys have been wonderful, loving, and very supportive.” By the expression on her face I know she’s not sure where this is going. I continue. “Since I’ve been here I haven’t been able to talk with any one. No one here speaks English, except you and your brother, and for this I am very thankful. I want so much to talk with your mom and dad, and I can’t even do that. I thought, that by touring the few smaller cities and villages that we have so far, that we’d at least find some English speaking people. No. There hasn’t been any. I look at the people as they go walking by, they turn and look away. I only want to say hi.” Vilma looks at me empathetically, and re-assures me that we will find some English speaking people, and that everything will be alright. “Another thing,” I say with extreme sadness and my voice beginning to break, “there is none of my kind here. There are no Indians. Not one. I look, but I can’t find any.” In a feeble, heart broken attempt to interject humor at this point, I ask, “What have you guys done with all the Indians?” By now my voice is heightening, cracking, as I feel the total loss and separation from my people; my beautiful Indian people; my friends, my family; seven thousand miles away from home. I begin to cry- even, uncontrollably. I sat there, and I wept. Vilma could do no more than hold me, and tell me, everything was going to be alright.

After many moments of agonizing loss, I turned to her and said, “I want to go home. I want to go back to Canada. I can’t take this any more. Three weeks is enough. I want to leave tomorrow.” Vilma was shocked by my request; we were to be in Hungary for three months. At first she was silent, and then said, “Please,” almost begging, and now too, in tears, “just give it one more day- please, just one more day.” Feeling her slight opposition I said strongly, “Why? What’s the use? How are things going to change over night? Is everyone just going to suddenly start speaking English and all the Indians appear?” She was speechless and searching for words to say. “You’ve been wanting to go to Budapest- if I can convince my brother to take us to Budapest tomorrow, will you consider staying? I promise you, things will change. Budapest is a huge city, and for sure ,there will be English speaking people there. People come from all over the world to live in Budapest. You’ll find people. And, it’s a very beautiful city with so much more to do.” Questioning her sincerity, I look to her and say, “Well, you’ve been saying for the past week or so, that we’re going to Budapest. It hasn’t happened yet, what makes you think it’s going to happen now.” I continued, “If it doesn’t happen, I’m not even going to hesitate. I’m going to pack my bags and find my own way to the airport, and, I’m going back to Canada.” Vilma was relieved, for now, she’d found some reprieve.

There was silence, anticipation, as we were on route to Budapest. Vilma looked at me throwing one of her sweet, innocent, and lovely smiles. Perking up she said, “You’re going to find South American Indians here too. Many of them come from places like Guatemala, and make a living playing their traditional music, selling CDs, and other items from their culture.” I look at her and smile.

The traffic lanes begin to change- they begin to widen into multiple lanes. There are more street and directional signs- all indicating that we are getting closer, and closer, to the city. I can feel the excitement begin to re-generate inside me. Finally, a breath of fresh air; there it is, in all its splendor: Budapest.

My heart leapt just as it did, three weeks earlier, when we touched down at the Budapest Airport.

Vilma’s cousin comes into the room as we’re settling in, “Godwin, we’re planning on going to this Ryke session tomorrow. We were wondering if you’d like to come with us.” I’m laying there, so relieved to be in the city, and thinking on all the fun and exciting things that we’re going to be doing, and the many English speaking people we’re going to meet. “Ryke? What’s that exactly?” “Well. It’s like going to church but without the church. People come together and sit in a circle and attempt to make conscious contact with God. Like I said, it’s like church, but without the church, and all its rules and regulations. We just sit, talk, and meditate. For many people, it’s very healing.” “It sounds alright. I guess I can come.”

Being brought up as a very devout Anglican, and exploring Pentecostalism later, I wasn’t too sure if I was doing the right thing. I went any way.

There were about fifteen people in the circle, two of which spoke English: Vilma, and her cousin. The leader spoke eloquently and with much gentleness; each in turn, spoke, in Hungarian. As I sat not being able to understand, I began to feel the same imprisonment of the previous three weeks. I sat there and began to stew, feeling again the loss, separation, anxiety, pain, and brokenness. Then, I was asked to speak- with the instruction that Vilma would interpret. I sat there, with every intention of sharing- and the complete focus on me. I looked up into the faces of the people around me, tears had already welled in my eyes, they were waiting. I was different, I wasn’t from their country. I tried to speak, but couldn’t. I looked at Vilma and began to cry, and, almost shouting, I said, “I can’t do this. Why did I listen to you? Why the hell did I come to your country?” I jumped up and ran out of the room.

Vilma followed and caught me, as I stood outside the building near a wire fence- crying, cursing, and shouting. She didn’t say a word, as I kicked and punched the fence; ranting and raving. “Why? What the hell am I doing here? How is this supposed to make things better?” Her cousin approached us, slowly, delicately. “Please Godwin. Come back in. The people want you to come back in.” I said, “After this incredible act of cowardness and humiliation, you want me to come back in? Are you crazy?” She pleaded some more, “Please. Please come back in.” I looked at Vilma and sensed her sadness, and her helplessness, “Ok, let’s go. One more time; let’s go back in.”

Vilma placed her hand upon my thigh, as I began to speak- speaking through deep moans, and sobs, with a breaking voice, “I can’t communicate with any one, every one always looks away. And there are no Indian people. I miss my people so much; my family- so far away...” As I continued, I cried and cried. I’d never felt so isolated and so alone, ever, in all of my life. Vilma cried with me- as did a few others in the room, as they began to share my pain. The leader came toward me, took me gently by the hand, and led me to the center of the circle. He just held me. No words were spoken; he just held me. I could speak no more in English, as the heavenly language just began to permeate through me- the gift of “speaking in tongues.” I knew now, the anguish of my soul was being translated into a language that only God can understand, and, that something was going to happen; something good. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to, and I didn’t. It was too beautiful. I left feeling rejuvenated, and alive. I left feeling that everything was going to be alright, and knew that things were going to change.

The next morning, Vilma, her cousin, and I, were getting ready to go to the West End Center, one of Budapest’s larger malls. I just missed the city and wanted to get a feel of city life again. As we were walking through the mall I began to hear softly, almost a whisper “Isn’t that guy an Indian? He looks like an Indian.” I ignore it at first, and continue walking. It continues, “Go and ask him. Find out where he’s from.” My curiosity gets the best of me, and I turn. Immediately, as if I’ve discovered riches far greater than gold- my eyes light up, my smile spans the length of the mall hall, I look at the two sitting on the bench and say to the guy, softly, “Indian?” He looks at me, smiling, ear to ear, “Yeah. Indian.”

Immediately I jump, dance, and shout, throwing my arms in the air: “Woo-hoo! Indian! Indian! Indian! Oh my God- an Indian!” He looks at me wondering what the heck’s going on, yet pleasantly pleased. I look at him and exclaim, “I can’t believe I found you. You can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it has been for me here in a country where there is virtually no English, and for sure, no Indians.” He smiled, and said lightly, “I’ve only been here for a week, and know already what you mean. I was beginning to feel the same way.” My next question was: “Where are you from?” He smiled as he said very proudly, “Regina. Saskatchewan- Canada.” Oh my God, I was so elated; someone of my own kind, and from the same country. “I’m from Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. I’m originally from a little reserve in northwestern BC, but I’ve lived in Vancouver for the past many years. Man, it is so nice to meet you.”

From that moment on, over the following two weeks, we became friends and connected with each other as often as we could; he, with his Hungarian girlfriend, and I, with mine.

Not only did I meet a genuine, full blooded Indian from Canada, but I also had the privilege of attending a four day “Indian camp,” held by a group of Hungarians, who regularly traveled to the United States to do cultural exchange and interaction with the Lakota Nation. They interchanged, adopted, and shared many aspects of their traditional cultures, and the Hungarians brought many practices back from the United States; many, of which, I was familiar with. We did meet the South American Indians, and they too, over the three months became very good friends of ours. As they traveled from city to city, as if by divine providence, we just kept on meeting.

As for the English speaking people, they were everywhere, even the Hungarian people themselves. Now, a few years later, through the establishment of dual language schools in Hungary, English is more widely spoken, especially in the smaller towns, cities, and villages.

How does this all translate to Vilnius?

I came to Vilnius, my first world trip entirely on my own- to meet with approximately fifty other participants for a Summer Literary Seminar. Hungary, which I now consider my training grounds for foreign travel, prepared me for the many things I may encounter during trips to other parts of the world. Here, the experience has been beautiful.

I’ve felt right at home in this city: Vilnius. No matter which direction I’ve taken, I’ve been unable to get lost; it’s an innate feeling, really- as if I were born here: I know each step I am to take, and end up exactly where I want to be. It’s a miracle, too- I just have not been able to get lost (not that I’ve been trying). The people here are very, very hospitable, and friendly. I chuckled as I was in the city, the newer part of Vilnius, if I needed a direction or clarity, I’d ask someone, usually a woman. I did ask men for direction and help a few times, but ninety-nine percent of the time I gravitated toward the woman. Why? Because many of them are so undeniably, and inextricably, beautiful...and, it’s an opportunity to speak with a princess; if one did not speak English, they quickly ran and grabbed one of their friends that did- then, all standing in a semi-circle around me, the one speaks, while the others listen, smiling, beautifully. It’s an enriching, and enlightening feeling, sparking an even greater confidence and magnetism toward this country.

The food, as someone said, and I share the same opinion, “It’s to die for, and the coffee. Traditional Lithuanian food is so good!”

I was asked in an interview: “How has being in Vilnius affected your writing?

I answered:

“It’s an incredible place of inspiration: the architecture, history, culture, and the people. It’s all around you. You become saturated in a different life style, a different way of living. What you eat, the way you interact with people, and the way that you renew your view of seeing things- these all in some way become reflective in your writing. There is so much to write about.”

I smile, as I think, but don’t say, “And the woman, oh the lovely, lovely woman; such beauty, such elegance.”

As I sit, I remember the one that I’d seen- her hair, her eyes, and her shape; her face- truly the countenance of an angel; the shape of her mouth, her lips, and perfectly shaped nose- glowing, just as radiantly. I had to stop, stare, in awe; I couldn’t believe such beauty walks this earth...and here, in Vilnius, a few thousand miles away from my home, to which in a few days I shall return.

The question has been asked of me a few times- like others before me: writers, poets, authors, photographers: “Would you consider moving to Vilnius?”

My response, “She’d have to be pretty darn beautiful, internally and externally, for me to up-root my life in Canada and give up all that I know- to live a life here in Vilnius.”

“Don’t get me wrong- I do love your city.”

- posted by Free2write @ 8:24 AM